(D) The Rabbit Hole - Avenge Me Series -
by Ezra Cross
Summary: Clint has been on the lam since the Avengers fell. Peter Parker has been wondering what it means to be a hero, while getting little instruction from Tony Stark himself. When their path's cross, Parker is determined to take the bitter, broken, ex-Avenger and bring the team back together. Little does he know just what Hawkeye has suffered through since leaving the Avengers behind...
1. Chapter 1

My Name is Ezra Cross.

Welcome back.

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A recap for those who are not aware:

Book 1: The Prequel- In this we learn how exactly Clint and his wife came to meet. We learn about why they don't have a little girl named Natasha, and what they suffered through to get the family they have today. Having kids wasn't easy, and often times they had more tears than children. But in the end love kept them tied together.

Book 2: Avenge Me- Written first, in this story, we tip-toe around the traditional AOU story line to fit my own needs. Clint's family is kidnapped, namely his pregnant wife and son. The Avengers learn that not only does Clint have a family, but they are now all on an adventure to save them. Clint's little girl, Lila, avoided capture due to her brother's sacrifice. Her favorite Avenger? Thor. The Thunder god's happy infatuation begins in the most adorable way possible.

Book 3- The Aftermath- Following AOU, Clint realizes he and his family aren't safe at their home. Laura and he go on a road trip together, scouting out a new location to live. In the center of that, something happens. Clint is hunted by his own team. SHIELD . . .or is it HYDRA? . . . is bearing down on him. Somehow the family avoids complete disaster, though the encounter leaves Laura changed forever. (SPOILER*****##### Inhuman DNA awakens in Laura's soul. Make her a target for any Inhuman hunter)

Now: Book 4- The Rabbit Hole. Situated after Spider-Man Homecoming and Civil War. Prepare to enter a darker world. Prepare to ask questions. Prepare to steal your hearts. Because what comes next will make you question everything.

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Avenge Me

Book 4

\- The Rabbit Hole -

Chapter 1

A 1978 Indian motorcycle thundered down the side alley of Junction 23 and the Indian Bodega on 19th street five days a week. The fat cat would sit in the window, stirred awake by the angry snarl of the big engine and bad muffler as it roared by at speed that should have been illegal on the New York streets. Most of the times cops couldn't catch it even if they wanted. Either the fat back tire would jump a curb and zip off, or the law would be too busy staring down the muzzle of their guns after the newest city threat. What did one speeder matter when alien technology was blowing up street corners and a spandex-wearing guy swung from the high-rises? This was the New York City of today. A New York City under threat by troubles so great that the Avengers needed to exist.

Peter Parker was not an Avenger. He was a high school student at Midland and if it hadn't been for his late-night escapades as a costumed super hero, he wouldn't have given much thought to one random speeder in the sea of others. Except, on this day, that Indian motorcycle went sailing right down the center lane of the School's back parking lot three weeks into the new school year. A breathtaking summer heat had yet to give up on beating New York City into submission. Tendrils of heat rose from the tarmac like visible worldly portals to some great beyond. The part-time Spider-Man stepped lightly across the melting asphalt and nearly ran headlong into the smoking tail pipe of the motorcycle cutting him off. Pulling one white headphone free of his ear, Parker glanced up at the figure rising from the saddle seat.

The rider was a man. His hair was buzzed short on the sides, dark, with a length to the top that made him look intriguing and dangerous all at once. A square of facial hair hid his chin and upper lip, framing his features. It was vaguely lighter than the hair over his head, making Parker wonder what box of hair dye had been used to create the difference. The motorcycle rider wore large, aviator sunglasses with mirrored fronts. As Parker looked at him, all he could see was his own reflection staring back at him. It had the unnerving effect the man most likely intended.

"Office?" the rider snapped.

Peter rose out of his inspection with a sudden jarring. "Huh?"

"Office," the rider demanded a second time. He leaned over into the saddle bags of the Indian and pulled a satchel out.

"Oh," Parker indicated the door not far from them. The Midtown School of Science and Technology wasn't exactly open to the public, even if a few random characters occasionally strolled their way inside. Recently, a father of one of the Midland students came out as a criminal mastermind. Since then, the school security increased fourfold. Gates tended to stay locked, key cards were required, and they did background checks on every teacher in the school. Even the shop coach ended up fired for sneaking a paid escort into the Homecoming Dance.

The rider glanced at the door Peter indicated, then back at the kid. "You go here?"

Parker nodded.

The man's chin dropped, then lifted very slowly, taking every measure of the teen in front of him. Assessment complete, he grunted once, hiked his bag up over his shoulder, and headed off in the direction of the office. He didn't bother to acknowledge the part-time security guard who shuffled his three-hundred pounds after him. Three steps from the coded office door, the rider turns, his reflective lenses not enough to take in the girth of the man in front of him. The guard took a careful step away with his hands lifted in supplication. The rider punched in a keycode, the door sprang open, and he entered in without missing a single stride. The guard hurried in behind him, waving a five pound Maglite threateningly.

Peter lifted an eyebrow, shrugged, and returned his ear bud to its previous position.

:(:):(:):

Shop class happened at either 11am or 1:30pm, depending on a student's schedule. Most elected for the later class and shoved a study hall at the end of the day so they could skip out on school early. Gluttons for punishment, or super heroes trying to hide their undercover activities, elected for the 11am class. Peter Parker was one of the latter group. He'd situated shop directly after his second semester chemistry class and prior to lunch, with study hall and P.E. directly following. On a good day, he could start a project in chemistry and continue it in shop class, work through lunch and his study hall, only to get the blood pumping again in P.E. before he called it quits for the day. With a teacher more interested in internet girls than education, it was relatively easy to get away with anything he wanted during shop time. However, with that teacher now fired, the future of his independent activities rested in limbo. A few substitutes had come, and subsequently gone, with varying attempts to force the student body into some project or another. Resistance was met on all sides.

Today. That changed.

Principle Morita entered the relatively empty elective hall five minutes into the start of class. He apologized briefly for his tardiness, indicating the person to his left as if it was explanation enough. Peter had been sitting behind his traditional bench with Ned, a friend and fellow classmate, as the rest of the class knew better than to encroach on their personal space or budding bromance. Seeing the newcomer, Peter sat up a little straighter.

The sunglasses had come off, but the person was still distinguishable as the rider who Peter nearly ran into earlier that morning. Ned leaned over to Peter's shoulders.

"He's freaking me out," Ned whispered.

"Oh, come on," Peter threw him a glance.

"Dude, seriously, he's probably going to make us do actual work or something."

"Maybe not," Peter replied hopefully.

"All right, everyone, that's enough." To silence the ongoing side conversations around them, Principle Morita knocked his hand on the metal desk in front of himself. "Hey, guys, I know things have felt a little disjointed lately, but I want you to know that we care about you guys getting the right education from the right person. This," he lifted his hand toward the man standing on his left, "is Dr. Obadiah Krats. He's been a professor of biotechnology at the International Science Institute in Ipswitch for the past two years and recently relocated to New York City. He has great experience teaching students and is excited to get you guys started on some fascinating new projects. Feel free to ask questions and really take advantage of your time here."

Principle Morita nodded once, a visible punctuation to his statement, and clapped Dr. Krats on the back. The professor himself waited until Morita made his announcements, exited, and shut the door before he addressed the group for himself.

Krats extracted a pair of square reading glasses which he set on the bridge of his nose and folded his arms over his chest. He wore a black polo shirt and long grey slacks he had to roll up at the ankles to keep them from dragging on the floor. He had the build of a typical gym-nut, not uncommon for men in that part of the city who fancied spray tans and bench presses more than slick cars and art history. With a single, judging, glare he analyzed the stock of the room and ended on Parker. He pointed at the teen.

"I met you," Krats said.

Peter too pointed at himself and said, "Yeah—for a minute I mean—I'm –"

Krats lifted his leather satchel from the floor, dropped it onto his desk, and extracted a sheet of paper with a snap of his hand. "Peter Parker," he read, analyzing first the images on his roll call, and then shooting a side-eye to Parker.

"Uh—yeah," Peter gulped.

"Crap," Ned whispered to him. A bead of sweat dripping down his brow. "This is gonna be bad, Pete. We're screwed."

"Ned Leeds," Krats barked.

The boy snapped to attention. He even brought a hand hurriedly to the side of his brow and yanked it away as if he was saluting a brigadier general. "Yes-Yes, sir?"

Krats blinked at him. The impromptu salute apparently wasn't his idea of proper. He let the move pass, and continued on down the roll call to the remaining seven students. When his assessment was done, he set the paper on the desk again and pulled his glasses off the end of his nose.

"Listen up, I don't care what the hell your principle thinks I'm here to do. Because I'm not. This is a job with a steady paycheck, and all I've got to do is keep the nine of you from cutting your fingers off on the band saw. Isn't that about right?"

The students looked rapidly amongst themselves for a reason why they should refute the idea. Finding no valid excuses, they stared blankly at him, mostly out of sheer joy for the sudden turn their day had taken.

"Good," Krats said. He yanked out his chair and dropped down into it, then leaned back and stacked his feet on the worn metal top. "You guys are all some kind of mini geniuses or something too, right?"

A few of the braver students agreed with him.

"Then let's make a deal. You keep building your fidget spinners and crap, and I'll sit here and do what I want. If you want to use the saw, you ask me. First kid to lose a finger, I'll cut another one off just for the inconvenience and good luck proving I did. Because no one will believe you cut off one, and I cut off the other. Cause only crazy people do that." Kratz rooted through the drawers in his desk, found a wadded-up newspaper, and pulled it out. He smoothed the edges out and, when he noticed no one had moved, he said, "What are you going to do, sit there and stare at me the whole time? Look, if you all want pop quizzes and homework—"

As hurriedly as the image of a quiz was conjured, the room suddenly dispersed in a flurry of movement. Krats watched them for a short time beneath the gaze of a furrowed brow. He glanced beneath the cover of his newspaper at the open bag by his feet. A flask rested inside, too big for simple recreational use, and full of enough high proof moonshine to black out his vision with every swallow. He reached down, popped the lid, and took a single, hard, swallow. This was only day one.

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This chap. is technically still with the editor. will update eventually.

Please review. It's only downhill from here


	2. Chapter 2

5mairer: Thank you for your steady support. I promise this one will be done:)

Jesuslovesmarina: Thank you for always being there! Few reviews on this book around, but i can only blame myself for so many unfinished works and not updating in years

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Chapter 2

Working with kids wasn't hard. Dealing in office politics, water-cooler-gossip, being the attention of every single mother, single teacher, and even some single fathers, wasn't hard. Hiding his flask in a dirty pocket, refilling it each morning, each afternoon, with the bottle of hooch he kept stashed in the saddle bag of his bike, wasn't hard. But, forcing himself out of his bed every morning was torture. He'd lay there on his back, eyes staring at the reflective tile on the ceiling shining a dingy gold back down at him.

His hotel was once a cat-house, a place for 20s era flappers, spinsters, and swingers to waltz in and take care of business under the shimmering mirrors of the old gold panel. Krats stared up at himself, hugging the bottle between his arm and his chest, as he considered the man he had slowly turned into.

It snuck up on him. One day he was standing on the top of the world, looking down at the city below and defending it for whatever that was worth. For justice? For mercy? To make up for his slights, his crimes? Was he a hero for himself or the family he loved?

The silver grey of his eyes vanished under heavy lids. He palmed the neck of the bottle and brought it to his lips for another swallow. Fire burned down his throat and carved a line straight to his empty stomach. He'd fallen far. A hawk who'd dropped from the sky and hit every tree branch on the way down right before a truck swung by and splattered him over its windshield. He was washed up. Done in. Used, abused, and retired. Wanted and unwanted.

"Hell of a spot you stuck yourself in, Clint," he muttered to himself, opening his eyes again. Obadiah Krats. He used that for Tony Stark specifically. It was a risk, one that Clint shouldn't have taken with his current most wanted status, but he couldn't help the small jab.

The image in the brushed mirror didn't change, though. He'd hacked the government databases and erased his records, his footage, and his photos from all reasonable sites and figured Stark wouldn't go diving into his trove to put them back. The cops still had sketches to go off of, and that wouldn't easily change.

Clint couldn't stand the look of the contacts glaring at him or the pain he couldn't hide, shining like the beacon in a lighthouse. His grip on the bottleneck tightened and he hurled it upward, connecting with one of the panels and shattering the antique ceiling tile into a thousand shards. They rained down all around him. Some of the shards fell hard enough to leave their mark behind, but he didn't move. Grief kept him tied down. Grief, regret, and all those emotions that rolled with it.

The alarm clock across the room buzzed. It stood on its own among a group of the desecrated remains of its predecessors. He didn't have a phone, never kept a cell on him. It was a sure fire way of being tracked. He was a spy first and human second. Now a wanted man, he couldn't risk jeopardizing his identity.

It had been a year since the Sokovia accords tore the Avengers apart. Neither side was right, Clint knew. Tony was wrong for blaming a guy who had nothing to do with an assassination, for holding a grudge and letting that grudge cloud everything in his head. Cap was wrong for putting a war buddy first and forgetting everything he'd ever built since then, for trampling on every single person who got in his way and leaving them high and dry afterward. Sure he broke them out of jail, but it should have never gotten to that point. A grudge match destroyed the team, but it's what came after that destroyed Clint. Where was his team then? Where were his friends?

The alarm continued to ring. Clint forced himself up on his elbows, grabbed a shard of glass, and slung it toward the clock. The shard stuck fast through the face of the alarm and that alarm too joined the scattered remains of its fallen brethren. The last thing Barton wanted to do was to get up, to hop on that rattling saddle seat of his motorcycle, and survive another day in the remedial task of baby sitter.

He had too. Hide in plain sight, change enough to blend but not enough to stand out. Keep to yourself. That was how he survived. This was his new life.

Clint forced himself to roll over, ignoring the shards of glass as they pressed against his unprotected flesh. His bare feet flattened on the filthy carpet as his hands raised to rub his face, cruising upwards until they coursed through the short spikes of his hair. His fingers laced behind his neck and he stretched his head back and up, listening to the satisfying snap of his c-spine. The sound brought a memory, a hurried flash of a scream. A hand reaching for him. his hand reaching back. Heavy breathing in his ear. SNAP.

His eyes squeezed shut, dislodging the false lenses drying out over his corneas. His back bent forward as his head pressed down between his knees. The sickening sound reverberated through his memory.

 _SNAP_. A single, decisive, sound. Like the crack of a whip in the air; a sound that ended it all. His shoulders shook. A scream pulled from his liquor stained lips.

He straightened. Clean clothes lay in the mesh laundry hamper where he'd thrown them. He had few possessions. He ran through his clothing stock once monthly, threw out everything he'd used more than twice, and stopped at goodwill to replace what he'd gotten rid of. That was his life now.

He left his door unlocked. Even if the room was searched, the only one likely to find evidence of his real identity would be Black Widow. She'd found him twice, Natasha did. She tried to convince him to come home, to return to what little slice of it he had left. Ultimately, she failed. For now, she didn't seem all that interested in looking him up again. That hurt as much as the team breaking up. She was an aunt to his kids, as much a part of Thanksgiving meals as the burnt turkey Clint managed every year. He hadn't heard from her in six months, hadn't seen her in longer. Whatever they had was done and buried.

The Indian motorcycle stayed chained to a fire escape in the back alley. It had a false license plate. He changed the paint color with sharpies and spray paint every few weeks. Occasionally he'd dump it somewhere and steal a different ride for a few weeks to change up his routine. It was stupid to not wear a helmet on the broken New York streets. He'd crashed four times already, ended up on the front of cabs or road rashed from going over the bars. Each time he stumbled to his feet and dragged himself back to the old bike.

The silencing roar of the wind made waking up tolerable. That morning rush, cheating death by riding like a daredevil out to prove himself more impressive than Evil Knievel, kept him from staying glued to his mattress in the dirty old building nestled in center-city Bedford-Stuyvesant.

He revved the engine. The louder the better. The hot muffler pipes grazing the inside of his thigh as he pushed the bike over its limit. He tore off down the streets until he stopped at the steps of the Midtown high school on the Queen's side of the New York district. It was an outrageous distance to commute. It would have made more sense to take public transit, and sometimes he did. But nothing would compare to that morning rush he needed to feel alive again.

Clint pulled up to the sidewalk and kicked his bike over the concrete to the nearest gate. He didn't lock it on this side of town. Fort the most part, he didn't need to. The high school kids viewed him half like the bogyman, half Arthur Fonzarelli, only most had no idea who the latter even was. Fellow teachers acknowledged him as he entered the office space. He nodded his typical pleasantry and disappeared down the stairs to the main floor, then down a second set to the sub-wing where the shop class was located. He came in early, otherwise he might not come in at all. It gave him some time to kid himself into thinking the alcohol wasn't present on his breath or leaching through his pores.

His father did this. The drinking began as an insidious nebulous, sneaking up on him with every extra bottle with dinner, which became a beer for breakfast, then all day long. Clint remembered finding bottles rattling around the floor boards of his father's Buick as they rattled down the Iowa roads. The old man was mean when he was drunk, as angry as a hornet shaking his fist at the government, the world, and God. He worked in a butcher shop and had a hand and fist as strong as Thor and Captain America. At least that's what it felt like to Clint's childhood self. He never felt a day of love from that man. The past didn't excuse the way Clint wasted his life now, but regardless he clung onto it, as if it might dull the ache he bared every time he unscrewed the cap to his flask.

A sound stirred behind him. Momentarily surprised, Barton acted on instinct dulled by a morning of cheap schnapps. His hand flattened on the desk. He pushed out of his chair and spun around at the same time. His fingers curled into a fist he had nearly decided to throw when a last-minute restraint came over him. He stopped.

Peter Parker stood in the doorway a few feet behind him. The teen's back pack was slung over one shoulder, his hand outstretched as if to prevent his teacher from striking him. Instead of showing unadulterated fear, Parker's face was strictly smooth determination, as if the kid had been fighting battles all his life. Barton didn't know anything about him. It was possible Peter did just that.

"Sorry," Barton said shortly, willing his muscles to relax. Training took over like a second skin and every tensed tendon slid into an easy repose. He forced a smile to turn up the corner of his cheek and he half sat on the edge of his desk. "You're early. Shouldn't sneak up on people."

"Sorry Dr. Krats. Chem lab got canceled this morning and I had a couple things I wanted to work on here. I didn't think you'd be in yet," Peter replied. His eyes snapped down to Clint's hand, noted a knuckle full of scrapes and bruises. Clint had gotten into a bar room brawl two nights ago with a guy he never should have taken on. It was a lapse of judgement, one of many he'd dealt with the further into the bottle he crawled.

Peter's eyes snapped back up. "You ok, sir?"

"Bit the dirt mountain biking." Clint could lie as easily as he could drink. He displayed the hand for the teen to see, which put Parker slightly at ease. He slid into the room a little more and stopped hugging the doorway as if he might flee into the hall again. Parker noted the marks Clint pointed out to him.

"Looks like a hard fall. Where were you biking?" Peter asked innocently.

"Upstate," Clint flexed his hand, working the soreness out of it.

"Have a good weekend beside that?' Peter asked. He side stepped around the desk to head for his work bench. The small talk continued along his way.

"Mostly uneventful," Barton replied. In his mind's eye he replayed the bar fight. Clint twirled the gold band around his left ring finger. "Can't say anything good happened," he went on, shaking the memories away. "What about you?"

Peter smiled, shrugged, and sat down at his station. "You know. Same old, same old."

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OMG poor Clint. I've really done it this time. Stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry this one took a bit!

Jesuslovesmarina: thank you for all the support!

Batghost: ooooh what indeed?

mafiabro: thank you!

5mairer: hahhaha. Oh, there be more to come!

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Chapter 3

The injuries piled up. Peter could see them every time he walked into the woodshop, every time Dr. Krats waived a hello at them before continuing on in his endless void of staring at the newspaper or his blank computer screen. Some of the students wondered if he was secretly doing community service for a prison sentence. Others had more dubious ideas on the backstory of their silent woodshop teacher.

Peter watched him. He'd had enough bad experiences with people he thought he could trust turning on him suddenly. His concern spiked at the barrage of scars, the fresh cuts and stitches Dr. Krats would appear with and then his imagination went over the edge when Dr. Krats sprang up so fast at him, like a caged tiger spooked at the slightest sound. It took everything Peter had not to leap up onto the ceiling and give himself away as spider-man, wall crawling extraordinaire.

The man always arrived early. The moment the school opened, Krats could be found in his chair, at his desk, like a marble statue that never moved. He left that sanctuary for two reasons- to use the bathroom or to leave at the end of the day. Usually, he never had a need to use the lavatory. How he held it all day, with as much liquid as he consumed, Parker would never know. But, the private life of his teacher wasn't exactly the top of Parker's radar. He had a lot more interesting things to handle instead.

Stark gave him free reign to control his web shooting polymer. Having a shop teacher who turned the other way made it easy to package a full year supply of web fluid in a single month. Ned helped, mostly. His form of helping involved asking a thousand questions and geeking out at the simplest new customization. They'd made some remarkable new breakthroughs together on the web fluid design, strength, and longevity. In another few weeks they might even be able to adjust height differentials and speed.

The changes couldn't come soon enough. Peter was already buried in his extracurricular work. Following the arrest of Vulture, those who worked in his criminal enterprise weren't initially captured and continued on his latest business. His cash of weapon stores went public, fast, and suddenly every small arms robbery around town included an enhanced weapon of some kind. Some terrorist attacks had been threatened, but none of which carried out. Spider-Man successfully rounded up two dozen of the leaked goods, but he had no idea how many might still be available.

He wanted to be outside. On the streets. Dealing with that problem and not in school, staring down at his latest gym booklet sporting Captain America's jolly face. The good Captain's idea of physical fitness included mental fortitude, which meant every third month of the school year the gym class became standardized testing central. Everything from resting heart rates to how to calculate body mass index was involved in that test. He hadn't exactly had time to study, either. Peter was good at winging technical tests since he had such a broad knowledge of most things. Apparently, nothing in his knowledge base included physical fitness. He vaguely contemplated doodling a picture of Captain America in his answer bank just to pass the time.

No hero would pray for a disaster to happen to avoid responsibility, but Peter had to admit, when one did occur that day and pulled him away from his testing book, a small satisfaction swelled in him. He was more than happy to jump up from his desk when an explosion rocked the entire building. The majority of the student body was in the gymnasium at the time, tolling away at the standardized test. The walls shook. Three windows across the back of the basketball courts suddenly blasted inward. Glass hit the floor. Students screamed, stood, ran. The gym teacher pressed his whistle between his lips to grab their attention, but before he could offer a single trill, his sound was drowned out by another.

The roar was as loud as a jet engine. Peter struggled through the pressing crowd, resisting the urge to let his powers known, until he finally reached the nearest window to get some idea of what was happening. As soon as he reached it, he ducked down. A flag pole shot through the window, crossed half the gym, and embedded into the far wall. Peter lifted slowly, panting in excitement as he took another glance outside.

The sky was an ugly black. Wind whipped the trees bare of what leaves remained in the coming fall weather. Inexplicably, he could see a distant cyclone circling in the air mere blocks away. The tornado was massive. A perfect wall of debris from ground to sky, hundreds of feet tall. The roaring wind intensified, the wind hurling itself into a limitless typhoon hell bent on destruction.

Forcing himself up against the push of the wind, Peter blinked into the distance. He couldn't see much through the encroaching storm. He thought- was it possible? Peter's heart beat faster. He thought he could see someone standing in the center of the storm. He wasn't far away, half a block at most. His hands were raised into the sky. He seemed completely oblivious to the danger-likely as he was the one who orchestrated it.

Peter was forced down again. The air was painted in the shreds of abandoned standardized test papers whipping around like a thousand white flags. He pulled down the V of his shirt and checked to be sure he'd left the house wearing his Spiderman suit. He had.

"PARKER!" a voice called.

Peter glanced up, seeing Dr. Krats standing in the swinging doorway of the gym. He hadn't been at the school more than a couple months, but in that time the teacher hardly ever exited his basement safety. Krats braced in the entry way, one door had already been ripped off in the wind, the other held on by a single hinge. Krats crouched down. His glasses were gone.

"I'm ok!" Peter called to him, "Go, I'll get to you!"

The roar of the tornado approached. Overhead, a piece of the roof ripped free and pealed back, revealing the throttle of cars, light poles, and debris circling overhead. Krats crouched lower and cut a glance across the gymnasium to Parker.

"Go!" Parker tried to convince him. He sat up slightly, and threw a glance back out into the streets at the man standing in the center of the storm. Most likely he had some kind of enhanced tech. Parker didn't know how he was going to disable it, but he had to try. When he turned back, Dr. Krats was gone.

Parker breathed a sigh of relief and hurriedly ripped himself out of his school clothes. He shot a web anchor against the wall he hunkered behind, gave himself a 1-2-3 count, and all at once jumped up and through the window. He knew the wind would try to beat him back, but he had another web anchor ready for that. The light pole in the center quad was still intact. He planned to sling for that first and—

Peter stopped mid plan.

He stood, dumbfounded, as the wind suddenly died down around him. He watched, awestruck, as a shadow ran along the outside of the building parallel to him. The figure cut across the quad. He had something in his hands and he stalked his way right up to the weather controller. As Peter scrambled to catch up, he realized that the person was Dr. Krats.

The weatherman had turned his attention to the doctor. The tornado maker raised his hand, a glowing device attached to the end of it. Peter's adrenaline spiked. He shot a web, hoping to grab Krats out of the way of the potential danger, but he was too late.

Krats dropped his heel against a long wood splinter on the ground. The splinter pinwheeled up, he caught it mid-air, and just as fast as he caught it, the sliver sailed out of Krats' hands and dead center of the weatherman's chest. Krats lifted the object he'd brought, Peter realized now that it was the Decathalon trophy, and with a single golf swing, knocked the weatherman off his feet.

The weatherman wasn't alone. Peter's eyes shot across the scene to a hard left where a second man was waiting. He had a weapon similar to the first. He managed to get off a single plasma shot which Krats avoided as easily as the first. The teacher shuffled forward, grabbed the sliver of wood out of the first attacker's chest and without missing a beat sent it sailing straight and true into the leg of the second. The man cried out, keeling over to one side by the time Krats was on him. Peter watched in absolute memorization as his shop teacher took the second guy out with as much effort as fly swatting.

Krats stood over the guy for a moment to inspect his handiwork. Assured the guy wouldn't be standing any time soon, Krats nodded to himself, dropped the trophy on the guy's chest, and returned the way he came. He noted the half-dressed Spiderman standing in the street a few feet away, staring at him.

Krats' eyes narrowed. "Parker," he grumbled. "Figures."

Peter's mouth hung open, eyes large as saucers as he seemed to see his teacher for the first time. "Wa—wait a –you're—"

"Leaving," Krats cut him off, pushing by the teen.

Peter looked at the scene in front of him, then at the figure walking away from it. It was hard to tell, because so few good likenesses of Hawkeye existed in the world, but he was certain that he'd just witnessed the same fighting skill of the guy who fought with Captain America the day the Avengers split apart.

"Oh my God, you're Hawkeye!" Peter exclaimed, bouncing to keep up with his teacher.

Krats stopped suddenly, forcing Peter to a short stop beside him. The man lifted a finger, held it directly in his face, and said, "Don't call me that."

"I get it now, Krats," Peter said. "Stark, right? Oh my God, why didn't I get that before?"

Krats rolled his eyes and started walking again. "If you don't want the whole school to out you, kid, then you better get out of your spangled pajamas."

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OH, Clint. :)


	4. Chapter 4

For being so patient, i'm updating a few chapters today:)

The Spoiled Duchess: Aw, I'm glad you're loving it:)

Jesuslovesmarina: hahahaha. Sidekick. that's awesome!

Bellacatz27: i translate all of this as happy thoughts:)

Batghost: hahahahahah. Of course he does!

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Chapter 4

Barton could feel the kid's eyes staring him down, like a sniper scope trained on the back of his neck. Occasionally he'd lift a glance over the top of his newspaper and lock eyes with the accusatory glare. Peter Parker, spider extraordinaire, in the same class as Hawkeye. What cruel universe decided that was fair? They were on opposite sides of a war that Parker had no business being in. Frankly, the more Clint thought about it, the angrier at Stark he became for dragging the kid all the way to Germany.

It was two weeks since an "unexplained weather pattern" took out part of the Midtown high school. Barton had managed to skate away sight unseen by school officials and Parker had followed him the whole way. Ever since, the kid dogged his steps like a lost puppy. He was using Stark tech, that suit was too advanced for a teen to come up with on his own, and he had a stink of Happy about him. He didn't know why the boy didn't rat him out yet. If he was Stark's dog, then why wasn't he barking up his own tree?

The class emptied.

Parker had the option of staying behind, like he usually did, to work on what Barton now assumed was his Spider-Man tech or he could move on and take an hour off before his next class started. The rest of the class emptied the moment the bell rang. Parker's second in command, Ned, took a look at his friend, noticed the private conversation between Parker and the teacher, and made his own silent withdrawal.

Barton stood instantly and grabbed his bag.

"Oh, wait!" Peter exclaimed, hurrying over. "I'm not trying to turn you in or anything, sir, Mr. Hawkeye—"

"I said don't call me that," Barton snapped. He checked his pack, there wasn't anything he actually brought with him anyway.

"But you are—I saw what you did you there," Peter paused. He looked at the doorway, headed over, closed it, and stood in Barton's way. "What're you doing here? If anyone knew you showed up in the US again, you'd be . . ."

"Arrested?" Barton said flatly. He slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder. "Yeah. I got that. I got that when my best friend put me in handcuffs and sent me to prison."

Peter shrugged. "Then why?"

"You know where the government's trying to extradite me from right now?" Peter shook his head no, "Rowanda. Three months ago it was Mexico. Then North Korea. They've got spies dedicated to looking for me and I trained their trackers. I'm better than all of them, and I know if you're looking to hide out, you do it where they don't expect it."

A strange reflection of light came from the corner of his teacher's face, causing Peter to squint slightly at him and lean in. "Holy Crap, are you using a micro refraction hologram to distort your face? Is that why I can't recognize you? Does that mess with the facial recognition systems?"

That momentarily took Clint aback. He resisted the urge to touch the transmitter on his collar. The kid was smart, and that was dangerous. Clint started walking again, dogged every step by the part-time hero beside him.

"Is that like a lesson? Is this another test? Is Mr. Stark testing me again?"

Faster than Peter could have realized, Barton shot a hand forward and grabbed him by the shirt front. Peter felt himself pulled off his feet and forced only a few inches from Clint's face. He could smell the undertones of alcohol on the teacher's breath.

"Don't you dare think I ever came here as a favor to Stark. Got it?"

"Ye-yeah, sure-yeah," Peter agreed hurriedly.

Clint opened his fist and let the boy go. Peter took a moment to straighten his shirt out and compose himself. Despite being Spider-Man, having an Avenger-Class hero threatening him was enough to shake anyone up. Clint wasn't exactly a normal Avenger either. He didn't have any super powers, he had nothing but an uncanny skill to hit anything he wanted with whatever he wanted. Peter didn't know him personally, but given how little of hands-on learning he was getting from Tony Stark, this might not be the worst happenstance in the world.

It was a split-second decision. Clint's hand reached for the door and in that same moment, Peter shot a single web from the shooter on his wrist and glued Clint's hand to the doorknob. The archer's eyes narrowed to dagger-like slivers. He lifted his gaze to the teen and Peter inadvertently backed away. He swallowed, lifted his chin to force a little strength into his backbone, and squared his shoulders.

"I know who you are, and you're a wanted criminal. One call and I can have Mr. Stark down here," to emphasize his point, Peter lifted his phone out of his pocket. "It's my job to put the bad guys in jail, even if they don't think they are the bad guy. You're an Avenger—I don't know what I'm doing out here. I need someone to teach me . . ."

"Are you black mailing me?!" Barton roared.

"Well, um." Peter pressed his lips together. His hands slipped on his phone and without the super-cling of his powers it would have clattered awkwardly to the floor.

Clint made a swift movement with his free hand, a knife Peter didn't know he had appeared and suddenly Clint's hand was cut free. The ex-Avenger stalked toward him and before Peter knew what he was doing, a yelp emerged from Peter's mouth and he shot up, turned in mid-air, and clung to the ceiling.

"Look, kid," Clint growled at him, turning his head awkwardly to look Peter in the eyes, upside down. "I'm not your babysitter! I've been sitting in the same class with you for three months and you couldn't even figure out who I was from ten feet away. The minute I get out of this room, I can be gone. I can get a job as your math teacher and you'd have no idea I was the same guy. Do you get that?"

Peter nodded frantically.

Clint threw his knife, more out of frustration than anything else, and it landed dead-center on the nose of a Captain America poster that had been staring him down since day one. A slogan beneath the poster read "America was built by Hand" in large, white, bubble letters. Clint hadn't seen the good Captain in over a year. After the events with Tony and Steve's fallout, Steve showed up at that prison and broke Clint out. He then came clean about Bucky, Tony's parent's murder, and all the things he'd hid from them. Clint broke two knuckles on the Captain's face as payment. It wasn't long after, though, that Barton reached out, not because he wanted to, he had no other choice. Regardless of all Steve's promises to be a phone call away if Clint ever needed him, the Captain was a complete no show. Clint got nothing back but the silence of Steve's cold shoulder which shouldn't have surprised him. Tony had about as much consideration as Steve. No answers, dead silence, no returned calls. It didn't hurt any less knowing both the Avengers had abandoned him.

"Besides, kid," Barton said on his way out. "If you were going to snitch, you should have done it already."

* * *

this will be interesting... :)


	5. Chapter 5

like i said, multiple new chapters:)

i know trigger warnings are controversial, so i will not say what the trigger is. only know that dark matters lie ahead. proceed as such.

* * *

Chapter 5

This was dangerous. Clint could feel it in his heart and soul and in many ways his apathy had forced him not to care. Peter Parker was a liability he didn't need. A leech on the comfort, or discomfort as was now more often the case, of his heart. He couldn't risk staying and yet as Barton stared himself down in the golden-mirrored glass ceiling, he couldn't find the energy to start over.

He kept a tie in his closet, only one, with a noose slipknot hanging from a hook. He put it up the first day he moved into the appointment and every day since, he'd stare at it from the end of his bed, wondering whether or not he might slip into it and take the big sleep into whatever lay beyond. Vallhalla, hell, certainly not heaven-not any more after all the things he'd done. The reality of that and what future it yanked away from him made life almost worth living. He'd lost everything. While life had no meaning for him now, none beside survival, he could at least give his last finger to the world by surviving well.

It was Saturday. Saturdays were worse than Sunday. The first day of a long weekend with nowhere to go, no one to see, and nothing to do. Walking in public might prove too risky. He occasional would take the Metro, vanish into the crowds of the world's underbelly, destroy a few muggers, and slink back home with his bag refilled in cheap liquor.

Nine a.m.

Clint rolled over in his bed, burying his arm beneath a thin pillow. His mattress was bare. He hadn't replaced the sheets since he shattered one of the mirrored tiles hanging over him. The sheet itself still rested in a pile at the end of his bed, glass and all. Occasionally he'd pick up a sliver when his bare feet touched the ground and he'd curse at himself for it, but that didn't change how he cleaned up.

His apartment was small, a studio with a single room which housed most of his small essentials. Crumpled clothes-old and new- lay interspersed around like landmines, one pile usually cleaner than another. He should plan on cleaning the rest of them, or dumping the clothes and replacing what he needed to, or sweeping the empty liquor bottles into a trashbin. Instead he lay sideways in his bed contemplating that neck tie in his closet and the short walk to get there.

"It's so weird seeing you without that face distorter on. I totally recognize you now. Geez, that's weird."

Barton shot up. His hand gripped the gun he'd taped to his wall, and he raised it, cocked, loaded, ready, all at the same moment. He aimed without looking, knowing he didn't have to, and half a second before he squeezed the trigger a blue and red covered figure scurried out of the way. His finger eased off the pull.

"What the hell, kid!" Barton shouted, shoving himself up. His brain whipped around in his skull, forcing a bout of vertigo bad enough it knocked him flat. He dropped into his pillows, head wrapped in his arms, with the gun still pressed into his palm.

"Sorry, sorry!" Peter exclaimed, stropping down from the ceiling to perch on the end of Barton's bed. "I thought you were awake, and I wasn't sure if I should just like, knock, or say hi, or –"

"GET OUT!" Clint roared.

"Ok, yeah, sure. I'll go. I mean, I brought this in case you- you know- I heard you liked doughnuts and I figured everybody likes doughnuts. My uncle used to do that as a Saturday thing and, well, I saw you ride home yesterday and—"

Clint yanked the pillow harder over his head to drown the kid out. "I said get the hell out of my place!"

"Going! Going!" Peter climbed down, but carried his offering to the left side of Barton's bed. A small table was there, it had three legs and a book to keep it upright, and enough Jameson bottles to open a recycling plant. He awkwardly tried to push some out of the way to fit the box of munchkins he'd brought along. The racket he made was enough to drive Clint out from under his arm to glare at the kid.

"Are you deaf?" Clint demanded.

"No, I'm just, I was going to leave these here. I got you some breakfast. I guess you don't do much—" Peter glanced at the attached kitchen, if it could be called that, beside him. "Cooking," he said. "I got some doughnuts and I'm just leaving them here. And I'll be off."

"You did what?"

Peter grabbed a handful of the falling bottles with surprising dexterity. Balancing twelve in his hands and two on his left toe, he said, "I got breakfast."

Clint looked over at the box, then back at Peter. "How did you figure out where I live?"

With a somewhat smug grin, the teen said, "I'm Spider-Man."

Clint's perpetual scowl returned. "You've got super healing too, don't you?"

Peter nodded, at which point Clint reached over grabbed a bottle, and broke it against the boy's left knee cap. The move threw Parker off balance. His handful of beer bottles jostled free. The two balancing ones smashed on the floor, and he was forced to crumbled sideways, holding his offended limb.

"Don't follow me," Clint seethed. He popped open the doughnut box and grimaced at the options. Picking out a chocolate, he rolled over again. "And get out of my place."

:(:):(:):

"I have a washer at my place you can use if you want."

The voice came from behind Clint Barton, like an annoying grasshopper clinging to his shoulder narrating his inner thoughts. He didn't bother turning around to look at the bearer of the voice. It was easy enough to guess. Despite kicking the kid out of his apartment, twice, and nearly shattering his knee cap, Clint hadn't been able to shake Parker's resolve in following him around. It was midafternoon. Clint had finished half the box of doughnuts, the rest of his bottle of Jack Daniels, and disappeared into the city streets with his clothing bag slung over his back. He hadn't been in the laundry mat for more than three and a half minutes before the bug-boy appeared, perched on the empty counter at Clint's back.

Clint didn't bother to look at him. "I said, quit following me or I'll make you regret it."

"Yeah, but you'd have to catch me first, and I'm pretty fast if I do say so myself."

Clint filled the washer, threw in a handful of laundry pods, and slammed the door shut. He turned to face the kid. "I once shot a man through the eye from four miles away. I helped kill Ultron. You really wanna play keep away with me?"

The boy's face paled.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Clint left his laundry bag on top of the washer and looked around for someplace to either sit or weigh stepping out for food.

Apparently, Peter read his mind. He held up a twenty-dollar bill. "Lunch's on me!"

Clint's pockets were empty of everything save quarters. He took a while, and decided there were worse ways he could make twenty bucks or a free lunch. He reached forward, snatched the twenty dollars, and headed for the door. Taking it as an invitation to go along with him, Peter scurried down from the folding rack and followed. Clint pushed the door open, walked out, and shut it deliberately in front of Peter.

"Awe, come on," he whined.

Clint held the door shut another minute, just to prove a point, before heading off to the closest bodega.

Working alongside the Avengers, staying in Avengers tower, and training beside the likes of Thor, Captain America, and Iron Man, Clint used to have a relatively defined diet. He ate five to six times a day, loaded on protein and Tony's green energy drinks, and for the most part he ate healthy unless he was at home. Home meant chocolate cookies, tubes of yogurt, and pizza on Friday nights. He stood at the counter of the corner shop and stared at the last container of animal crackers. The shop owner leaned across from him. He'd asked a few questions, which Clint didn't hear.

Peter stood beside him and considered the available options. He didn't spend a lot of time on the Bedford side of New York, though technically he should. It wasn't the safest neighborhood. On his way to find Clint, he'd stopped two armed robberies and knocked out a guy carting off a lady's purse. He'd started to ask Clint what the ex-Avenger might decide to get when Barton suddenly snatched the animal crackers, a warm coke can off the counter, and tossed the twenty at the teller. He turned and walked out without bothering to wait for change.

Peter made a few hurried excuses to the shop keep. He grabbed a pack of beef jerky, the spare change, and rushed out after Clint. The Avenger was already half way across the street on his way back to his apartment, leaving his clothes behind in the coin drop laundry. Peter was about to call out to him when something in the trashcan caught his eye. It was the unopened box of animal crackers.

"Hey, aren't you going to get your stuff?" Peter called.

Clint never acknowledged him.

The teen glanced at the coin drop and wondered just what he thought he was trying to do by following Clint around. Technically, the guy was a wanted criminal. Parker himself had fought against him. Though the rest of the teammates hadn't been rounded up yet, that didn't mean the government and the Avengers were any less interested in tracking Barton down. If Stark found out that his pet spider was holding out on him, there was no telling what Tony would do. But something felt off. Wrong. His Spidey sense was tingling and he couldn't pin point exactly why.

Sighing, Peter relegated to walking back into the laundromat. When he'd finished up Clint's clothes a few hours later, he returned to the Avenger's apartment to drop them off. Barton slept alone on his bare mattress. The doughnut box was empty, as was a fresh bottle of Grey Goose laying on the mattress beside him. He fidgety intensely in his sleep, a fitful dream forcing his hands into fists and his shoulders to shake.

Peter set the clothes down in the closet. He didn't want to guess what Clint folded and what he hung up- most likely he did neither and left the clean and dirty articles in floor piles. When Peter opened the closet door, he saw the single tie hanging down from the high hanger bar. He thought it was odd at first. He'd never seen Barton go to school wearing a tie before. Then all at once Peter realized what it looked like, hanging there, all by itself.

"Get out!"

The teen startled and turned all at once, expecting Clint to have woken again. Instead, he found Clint was still asleep. The ex-Avenger lay on his back, eyes half opened, staring at the wall as his hands clenched and unclenched. Blood coated his knuckles. Laying on the mattress beside him was a picture frame, its glass recently smashed.

"Get—get out—" Clint groaned. His leg thrashed. "Laura—Get them—Get them out—"

Dread swam through Peter's veins like a wraith. He could feel it sneaking up on him, moment by moment, he spent in Hawkeye's company though he had no real reason for it. He glanced back at the tie—the noose—hanging in Clint's closet and quietly reached in to unravel it. He folded the fabric into a square and stuffed it down into his pocket. The rest of the apartment wasn't much of a reprieve from the overwhelming sorrow looming like a dark cloud over Clint's life. Peter tip toed over to the bed, snapped his fingers a few times, and assured himself Barton wouldn't easily wake. Satisfied, Peter took in the room. He was no fairy godmother, but cleaning up a little bit might not set off Barton's grumpy side too much.

* * *

yeah, went a little dark there. it's only going to get worse.


	6. Chapter 6

JRBarton: I've missed you too!

Jesuslovesmarina: aw, Peter is a little hero isn't he? As for Clint's family... Well... :)

Guest: thank you! We shall see where this leads!

ELOSHAZZY : yeah, something has happened between Clint and Tony. Just what... To be determined...

Batghost : daw! Jiminy cricket!

* * *

Chapter 6

"Dude, I think you're crazy. Like—Dr. Krats legit killed a guy. That's what he's doing in this school. They kicked him out of Istanbul," Ned's voice was a hurried whisper directed in Peter's ear.

"He didn't kill anyone," Peter replied.

The object of his concern sat only three tables away from them. Dr. Krats never really moved. For the most part, he pretended to read the same paper, day in and day out, though all the students had this keen feeling he was really testing them in some way or other. When the principle came down to check on them, suddenly it was all hands-on deck. Krats would come to life like a robot. The students snapped to attention, Principle Morita completed his inspection, and the moment he was gone the world would return to normal.

This particular day, Krats—or rather Clint Barton—didn't return to his position at his desk. He stood up, initially garnering interest that he might head off for one of his infrequent bathroom trips where, most of the student body assumed, he did his day drinking.

Ned reached over and grabbed Peter by the arm. He tugged Pete's shirt incessantly. Their teacher was coming closer. He was walking down the line of shop benches and inspecting the student's work for the first time in the months that he'd worked at the school and now he stood over Peter's shoulder. Parker rotated his chair in his teacher's direction and lifted his eyes up.

"Oh, hi," he said.

Barton's scowl was less angry, more inquisitive. "You've been fiddling with that thing for two weeks Parker, when are you going to either throw it out or get it done?"

"Uh—well—" Peter stammered.

Barton fixed his attention on the next bench over. "You, Flash Gordon, is that supposed to be an anti-grav magnet or a tinker toy?"

Flash, similarly astonished on his teacher's newfound voice, only managed a few grunting noises.

"If you expect that thing to fly, you better re-orient those positive-negative balances. You put them on backwards."

Flash checked his work and realized the guy was right.

"You- Quiet Jane—" Clint pointed at another table. A girl looked up. "You aren't even in this class. Get out."

She shrugged, stood, and walked out.

Clint's attention returned to Parker. "If you plan on finishing that sometime this year, you better use carbon fiber and not sheet metal. Anything else is just lazy and stupid."

With his final comment delivered, Barton turned heel, went back to his desk, and plopped down. It would be the last time he spoke for the remainder of the day.

:(:):(:):

Peter sat on the window sill, his legs swinging slightly back and forth as he watched Clint Barton work. Hawkeye didn't talk to him, or at him, but he passively listened to Peter's input occasionally without instantly telling the kid to get out of his place. Small improvements to the way they first met. Peter still had to threaten on occasion that he'd go to Mr. Stark with what he knew about Clint's new identity. Barton then threatened to kill Peter, his aunt, his friends, and everyone he ever loved. Both threats were empty, or at least Pete hoped they were. He could never quite tell with Barton.

Clint wore a wedding band, a single silver loop on his left hand. When he thought no one was looking he'd pull it off his finger and roll it around his palm. His wife's name was Laura, Peter got that from the frequent nightmares, the screams that kept Clint from sleeping normally. That and the beer didn't exactly help, but lately Clint seemed to be cutting back on that.

"So, say I got a guy and there's two hostages. And, the guy is all like, ha-ha-ha, you gotta choose which one you going to save, and internally, I'm like, yeah this sucks, I gotta choose. And Say the first person is my aunt and the second person is like—the president. The first person is my aunt, the second person is the president, and I can only save one of them. What do I do? What would you do?"

Clint pulled open his mini fridge and glared at the contents inside. He reached in, grabbed a beer, and stepped back. It took little effort to pop open the cap with his thumb. Facing Peter, he dropped into his solo armchair and sipped from the neck of the bottle.

"At first-" Peter went on, discussing his hypothetical situation, "I would say, President. Done. I know that's what I should do. That's what Mr. Stark would do—but I mean. It's Aunt May. I can't just let Aunt May down, she's like my mom. I can't save both of them. The president's replaceable, they get a new one every few years, but that guy's got a family too. And what would people say if I saved Aunt May and didn't save him, they'd all start asking questions like who's this random chick that Spider-Man's going around saving." Peter sighed. He lifted his hands and dropped them onto his lap. "What would you do? If it was you, who would you save?"

Clint noticed a stray bag laying on the floor in front of him. He leaned over, opened it, and found part of a sandwich Peter had brought for him a few days ago. The smell wasn't overtly obtrusive. He unwrapped it, sniffed again, shrugged and took a bite. He looked up at the kid hanging in his window.

"Was that actually a question?" Clint asked.

"That's disgusting," Peter replied.

"You asked it, not me."

"Not my question, what you're eating. That's disgusting."

"You bought it."

"Yeah, like, four days ago and it's been laying on your floor. It's gross. If you want to eat we can go out and get something."

"Neither."

Peter rolled his eyes. He sighed, shaking his head, "You know what, you are the most frustrating person on the planet."

"Says the person who followed me home, annoys me, stole my tie, and cleaned my stuff without my permission. I know you took my gun, Parker, I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to shoot myself either, so you can stop babysitting it." Clint rolled the sandwich up again, Peter was right, it did have an off taste about it, and took another swig of his beer. "And I said neither, as in you don't save either of them. Your job isn't to save people. It's to stop the bad guys. You'll try to save them- to save everyone you can and in the end you will either end up dead or wishing you were. Keep to the easy stuff. Get the bad guys. Let everyone else take care of themselves."

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion. "But, that doesn't make sense. You saved people all the time."

"I got people killed," Clint pointed out, the razor edge returning to his voice. "Wanda—Scarlet Witch—had a brother until he met me. I got him killed trying to save people and not just get rid of bad guys. If they're gone, you won't have to worry about the ones you care about. Better yet, don't care about anyone."

Peter's throat constricted. He stood up. "Is that what you do now? You just lock yourself up here. Drink until you don't care? Is that what I should do?"

Clint spread his arms out to encompass his throne, his room, and the deflated life he lived. "Stick to it long enough kid and this'll be all the reward the world gives you. Forget family, forget love, and death, and all that mortal bull that Tony wants to spew at you. You will lose everything and wake up one day wondering where it all went. Maybe it'll be a bad guy forcing you to make a choice. Maybe it'll be your fault because you weren't strong enough to save them, either way it won't matter. You will be alone. If you think you won't, kid," Clint took another swig, finished the bottle, and let it hit the floor. "You're just lying to yourself."

Peter opened his mouth, ready to defend his own point with all the red-blooded dignity he had, but something else caught his attention away. Sirens in the distance. Ten of them, at least, roaring up the avenue toward Clint's apparent complex. His Spidey Sense sent a jolt of adrenaline through his veins and he turned in place to hang out the window and watch.

"Maybe Stark finally realized I'm hanging out under his nose," Clint commented, shoving up out of his chair and approaching the window. He glanced out around Parker.

The police cars made a sharp turn down the Bodega's alley, cutting through the front street to the coin drop laundry and turning a hard left past the apartment. Clint and Peter followed the cars with their eyes until they split off to the large federal reserve half a block away.

A four-letter word slipped from Clint's lips.

"Bank robbery," Peter said.

Clint cursed again and pulled away from the window. He went to the bed, moved the pillows, pushed over the mattress, and straightened up. "Where is it, kid?" he demanded.

Peter looked over. "What?"

"My gun, where is it?"

"Are you going down there?"

Clint turned on him. "Gun."

"You can't go down there! You told me yourself you don't do hero stuff anymore, Mr. Stark would know the minute you showed up on the grid. I'm pretty sure a Federal Bank has a grid."

Clint snarled in frustration, kicked the end of his bed and stomped toward the teen. "Look, kid, I've had it up to here with you, your teenage problems, and this hero-hard-on you've got for me. I need to get down there and stop those guys before they empty the safety deposit boxes!"

Peter gripped the window a little tighter, his heart thudding in his chest. "What's in the box?"

"My bow."

* * *

yeah, went a little dark there. it's only going to get worse.


	7. Chapter 7

mafiabr: I promise this one will be finished!

Guest: Absolutely:) This is a different Clint for sure, he is someone dark and troubled, plagued.

Batghost: a question i think we all ask

Jesuslovesmarina: we see the little glimmer of Clint still in there, hiding away, trapped...

* * *

Chapter 7

Convincing Clint Barton to stay out of the bank robbery was like trying to stop an elephant from charging a minivan. Spider-Man ended up with his last resort and webbed the ex-Avenger to his apartment door to keep him still while Peter alone somersaulted out of the window. He changed into his web-slinging costume mid-drop, pulled his spider-mask on, and swung off in the direction of the federal bank.

Nearly a dozen police cars lined up, sirens blaring, with twice as many officers hunkered down behind their vehicles. All guns were trained in the direction of the bank itself. Hostages were inevitably inside. By the time Spider-Man arrived, the shooting had already started. Semi-automatic fire interspersed with canon rounds exploded into the city streets. A plasma gun let loose, toppling a car end over end through the air until it came to a sudden stop. Half a second later it was followed by an earth shake great enough to split the city street apart. These guys were decked out in the same gear as the Midtown High weatherman.

Peter swooped in.

The initial scene was familiar. Bank robberies in New York nowadays had an overall stepwise process they always appeared to follow. First- the bad guys storm the bank. Set, done. Second, the cops show up and the bank robbers get desperate. Check on that one too. Third- and this was the more recent development- rather than trying to escape out a back door, tunnel, or run blazing out into the good fight they stayed, strapped bombs to their hostages, and tore the town apart in the most fanatical way possible, with the worst weapons available to men.

The initial wave was easy enough to handle, between the rounds of gunfire, the blind jabs, round house kicks, and threats to blow the world to kingdom come. Peter clung to the walls, the ceiling, and swung through the open beams to rock the room. His difficulty came in that last point. Peter was mid-swing when the enhanced weapon slammed into him.

His bones shook. His muscles tore. Peter's hands slipped open on his web and he went tumbling end-over-end across the high waxed floor. When his brain stopped rattling from the concussive force thrown at him, he pushed himself up on his elbows. His head lifted, and he looked directly up into the end of a canon muzzle.

The gleaming robber on the other end smiled in a putrid way. Grey rotting teeth grated at him. The muzzle glowed a brilliant pink, revved, and hummed to life. The world around him was filled in nothing but muffled sound. Peter scrambled to move. He wouldn't make it. Wouldn't get out of the way in time to make a difference before—

The enhanced weapon suddenly vanished before his eyes. Peter forced himself to look up and found a black clad figure standing over him. As Peter forced himself up, he began to recognize the man, despite the image destabilizer shifting his face into something else.

"Hawk?" He whispered.

All hell broke loose. The weapon, directed away from Peter, ripped an earthquake through half the bank and straight back to the vault. A rift opened in the earth, dividing it into a three-foot gap, ten feet straight down.

It continued to open, dragging chairs, desks, and nearly people down with it. Peter launched his web shooters across the gaps and drew them closer. He fired more, spanning the gap to give the hostages something to land on before they vanished into the depths. He threw his head back to check on Clint's progress.

The ex-Avenger worked meticulously. His movements were fluid, like water running over a stone. He'd tied a black scarf across the lower half of his face and wore nothing but black from his shirt to his shoes. His movements were direct, quick, and deadly. It took little time to disarm the man who nearly ended Peter's life and seconds later he was moving on to the next. Body after body fell beneath his sudden blows until there was no one left to fight. This was an Avenger at work.

Clint glanced over at Spider-Man. He didn't acknowledge him more than that small look while Clint made his way farther into the bank. He followed the line of the cracked earth, bypassed the overturned tables, and into the bank vault. It took him time to find his safety deposit box amongst the ruins, but when he did, he lifted the entire box up at once. Without a word spoken, he vanished. Peter never knew how he got in, let alone out, without ever being seen.

* * *

:) progress to the next chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

enjoy!

oh

and, I'm sorry.

But I am SO not sorry.

:)

* * *

Chapter 8

"So, stick to the right side of the room, sweep the area, one step at a time. Hit the guy farthest, then hit the guy closest, then hit the ones in between. If I see advanced tech, then just blow it up?"

The last words Peter spoke brought an upturn in his voice, a questioning tone entering it. He checked Clint's face with interest to see how the words affected him.

"Don't blow up crap when you don't know what it does," Clint corrected. He was laying on top of his desk in the abandoned shop room. His flask was in his hand, though it had gone empty two hours prior. It had only been filled with water. Peter's doing. Clint continued to adopt the habit long after he'd figured out the trick. Drinking from the flask, even with it being water alone, did bring a sort of comfort.

"Don't blow up crap," Peter repeated, turning the notion over in his mind. It was a sound advice. Clint was full of that. Sound simple things that made sense, weren't veiled in Yoda-like wisdom, and not from some distant face he hardly ever got to see. Sure, Clint still swooped in and saved him the way Stark occasionally did, but Tony wasn't often on the ground. Not like this.

Peter sat on the edge of the nearest shop bench. His legs swung back and forth while he thought about what he should ask next. He had started out keeping a notebook of ideas, ones that ranged from how to properly clean his suit, to workarounds on Stark's babysitting protocols. Still they threatened to off each other every once in a while. Clint would buck at Peter's intrusiveness and plan to throw him out a window while Peter would claim to let Tony in on their little arrangement—or the Department of Defense—or Homeland Security—or even HYDRA. There were many still in the world desperate to get their hands on Hawkeye's bones. He never forgot that. It was hard not to when every other month the FBI reminded him that Barton was considered part of the most wanted list.

Clint sat up suddenly. He rattled his flask, offering no more explanation than that, and dropped off the table onto his feet. He didn't take long to shuffle out of the room in the direction of the bathrooms and water fountain. It was already late, hours past the last bell and yet there Peter and he sat, talking about world saving together. Sometimes Clint came back after he disappeared. Other times, it was Peter's clue that the Hawk was finished with his wisdom for the night. Today, Peter doubted Clint planned to come back, especially given Clint had grabbed his bag on his way out.

Peter heeded his interim teacher's advice. He'd finally finished his advanced tensile web fluid, thanks to Clint's shop class and having him actually take an interest in his students' progress. Pete checked the cartridges, set them in his bag, and zipped it shut. He'd just swung it up to his shoulder when he turned to see someone standing in the doorway. His mouth dropped open and he sputtered.

"M—Mr—Mr. Stark!" he exclaimed.

Tony Stark looked the way he always looked after the Sokovia accords shaped his new life. He wore a fitted two-button suit over a cat-printed t-shirt and orange tinted sunglasses high on the bridge of his nose. A quick hint of a smile crossed his face while he stood there, leaning on the doorframe.

"You aren't returning my calls. And don't think I haven't noticed you went all defcon 12 five weeks ago on a bank. I didn't say anything then, but this—" Stark lifted his hand and twirled it in the air to indicate the room. "You are trying too hard and that means you're up to something. What're you working on?"

Peter breathed a small sigh of relief. "Oh, that, oh, it's nothing, Mr. Stark, really. It's just a new—"

Peter stopped suddenly when Tony pushed off the wall and came over. He checked inside of Peter's back pack, lifted one of the new vials, and rolled it between his fingers.

"Nice color. Nano tech?" he asked.

"No, it's just a—"

"Magnetized polymer?" Stark interrupted.

Peter glanced around his shoulder at the doorway, half expecting Clint to enter again. He said, "Yeah, magnetized. More stable and longer tension. Holds more weight."

"Hmm," Tony said. His tone was partly curious and equally ambitious. He liked the Parker kid. Everyday the boy proved his resourcefulness a hundredfold. It didn't make it any easier when Happy stopped getting phone calls, and the suit stopped sending him updates. After inspecting the vial, he dropped on the desk beside his hand. "I was worried about you. There, I said it. Not too big to admit it. When the best updates I get from you are from YouTube I tend to think there's a communication problem, don't you?"

Peter shrugged. "I guess there just wasn't much to say."

Tony's face reflected the flat, deadpan, glare leveled at the boy. "A tornado blew up your school. I thought at least I'd get an emoji for that one."

He chuckled nervously. "Oh, yeah. That."

"See, this is what concerns me," Tony said, wagging his finger. "You've been up to a lot of hero-stuff lately and I'm not hearing about it anymore. I'll admit, I think of you as a mini-me in the making, and I am slightly proud of that . . . I know I could do—and should do—a better job at being there for you as a hero mentor. But that would be a lot easier for me to do if you came and stayed at the Avengers training center like I offered before. If you do that, we'd have to tell—"

"No!" Peter exclaimed hurriedly. His backpack slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor. "We agreed no Aunt May."

"And as much as I would love outing you to your incredibly, unreasonably hot, Aunt, that's not the only reason I'm here." Tony leaned back against the teacher's desk, a desk that only minutes ago Clint Barton had been laying on. "Are you uncovering a random international gun smuggling rings again?"

Peter shook his head adamantly. "No, nothing like that. I—I mean, well, yeah I've come up against some weird things, but that's it. Not as many. I just, well, I didn't want the training wheels anymore that's all." He crossed an arm over his chest and held his opposite elbow. The pose made him looked younger than he should, something that occasionally came in handy with adults who wouldn't listen to reason or when he wanted to get away with something he shouldn't.

Tony cast an easy smile on him. "Hey, look, I'm not here to bust your stones. You—have—stones right now, right. This isn't that awkward tween stage?"

Peter didn't manage to say anything, but a strangled cry escaped him.

Tony waved him off. "I really don't want to know. Really. What I am saying is, not hearing from you gets me antsy. There're enough people out there I don't hear from anymore."

A hard lump formed in the back of Peter's throat. "How's that, you know, going?"

The Iron Man sighed. "Politics," he said briefly, as if to end the subject there. That wasn't enough for him to say and, given a few moments of awkward silence on Parker's end, Tony opened up slightly more. "Cap's gone. He left a cell phone he never picks up and more questions no one can answer for him. Wanda went with Panther man. She's hiding out in Wakanda, diplomatic immunity. Probably in a popsicle tube like that—" Tony stopped again. His hands had turned to fists on the edge of the desk. His face grew momentarily pale. "Anyway," he said, regaining his composure. Speaking about The Winter Soldier was still too much for him. "That's it. All of them off. All of them gone."

"Black Widow?" Peter tried, inching toward what he really wanted.

"Haven't seen her in ten months. Probably looking for Banner if you can figure that one out."

Peter checked the door again. Clint hadn't come back, and Tony obviously didn't encounter him in the hallway. Most likely he was already gone. "What about Hawkeye?"

"You know, I thought I was the one coming down to interrogate you," Tony pointed out. He stood. "It's no good rehashing old memories like this. Let's say—"

"I'm only curious," Peter interrupted, trying to flash his best smile, innocence working on Tony's pained heart. "You guys were all friends. When we worked together- that first time—I had no idea that was going to be it. You know? I never really got a chance to meet everybody else."

Tony shook his head slightly. "Don't have friends. Save yourself a lot of hardship. A lot of heartache. Hawkeye—Clint—took off. Packed up his wife and kids, and probably's living in Wakanda with everybody else."

The look of utter shock on Peter's face translated more than his words could muster. Compelled by it, Tony went on.

"He dropped it on us. Something happened. Somehow his family was found out and suddenly all of us showed up at the Barton Family home. His wife and kid were taken. She was pregnant back then."

Peter's heart skipped a beat. Images flashed through his mind- the smashed photo on Clint's bed. The empty liquor bottles. The wedding band he twirled around his finger . . .

"They died?" Peter whispered.

Tony reeled back. "Die—What?! No. God, no. We went in there guns blazing and found them. Found the location of Loki's scepter then too. Set the whole Ultron crisis into motion and suddenly Vision's swooping through the air and—I mean, Clint goes on vacation once, it was not my fault Cap started all this." He shrugged off Peter's intense gaze. "Look, that's a different story. Fact is, Clint took off with his wife and kids after Cap sprung him out of jail. I haven't seen them or talked with them since. And, yes, before you ask, I feel guilty about that. He called me a year ago and I was still mad at him, so I ignored him. I feel like I'm in a custody fight with him. An ugly one. His kid, Cooper, little younger than you, but he's smart. Smartest kid I ever met. Smarter than me, and I don't throw that around. Thor was Lila's favorite. I might not get blondy out of the sky, but she could. That little girl wiggles her little finger, I'd bet ten thousand Valkyries would come blasting out of the sky. She named her kitten after his father. It's a cat now, I think. God, it's been a while," Tony rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Baby's probably walking. Clint named him after Wanda's brother. We all visited when he was born. Pepper loved Laura."

"Laura?" Peter asked, his voice hardly a whisper.

"His wife's name."

Unable to prevent his legs from shaking, Peter sat back on the table top again. He could hear Clint's screams, the name, Laura, hot on his lips as he writhed on his bed, consumed in his nightmares. They were gone. Either they'd left Clint, or they were dead, but Peter knew the family was gone. Perhaps they had only left. Perhaps Clint sent them away for their own safety, to keep away from him and the governments tracking him.

"We helped get them a new house together," Tony went on. "After they lost the last one. They haven't been there since everything happened between us." Tony looked over. He saw Peter's strained face. The redness forming around his eyes, the tears turning a glistening sheen, and the slight quiver forced into his movements. Tony took half a step toward him. "Hey, what is it?"

A loud, tin sound rattled to the floor in a single crash. Tony turned hurriedly and Peter straightened. A water-filled flask tumbled by itself across the floor beside a pair of old sneakers. A hand remained outstretched where once the flask was held in a steady grasp. Clint Barton stood in the doorway, shock-still, eyes wide, watching the man across from him.

Peter reached out to him. "I didn't, I swear, I didn't say anything! I didn't know he was coming!"

"Son of a-," Tony exclaimed.

Clint's shock lasted for only a moment before the blind rage took over him.

"No!" Peter exclaimed.

Clint took Parker's outstretched hand and slammed it down on the vial of magnetized web fluid on his desk. The vial exploded, expanded, and enveloped Peter's hand instantly, sticking him in place.

"No!" Peter exclaimed again.

Clint vaulted over the desk. Tony back peddled away from him, still struggling to catch up with what was happening. He didn't realize the danger he was in until Clint had his hand wrapped around Tony's throat and the free fist cold-cocked him hard across his jaw.

* * *

uh oh

i'm still not sorry:)


	9. Chapter 9

mafiabro: yay!

Jesuslovesmarina : oh, that's nothing. You'll really hate me after this

Batghost :poor Peter... Poor Tony...

I'm the lonely life : oh, if you think that's mean, you ain't seen nothing yet. Have you read my Hawkeye Initiative by chance? If not then Where the World's Burn and oh so many others will screw you up for life:) I have an incredible knack for picking up movie details prior to them being put in the movies too. All about knowing your character

ELOSHAZZY: oh what happened indeed? Prepare... Rough seas ahead...

* * *

Chapter 9

Clint kept pushing, swinging, further back until Tony was against the wall with nothing but Clint Barton standing in front of him. Hawkeye had Tony's shirt gripped in his fist while the archer pulled up and launched forward punch after punch across Tony's face. The sunglasses went askew, then they bent, shattered, and at last hit the floor. Realizing he was in a fight for his life, Tony suddenly struck back.

His knee came up between the two of them and he kicked Clint in the stomach. With the archer lurching down, Tony brought his right hand across Clint's temple, snapping his head sideways and sending Clint to the floor. Barton recovered in an instant. He barreled forward, shoulder first, clipped Tony off at the knees and the both of them hit the floor together.

"Stop!" Peter shouted over and over again, wrenching his hand against the magnetized web fluid. He watched on in horror as the two Avengers wrestled each other on the floor. Torqued noses, ripped faces bled onto the cement.

"Clint!" Stark exclaimed, using his whole body to wrap around the archer. He grabbed one of Clint's elbows, extending it out in an arm bar. "Clint, Quit it! What the hell are you doing here? Talk to me!"

"Why?!" Clint roared. He twisted his face just enough to find a bare piece of Tony's calf to sink his teeth into.

Stark screamed. His grip slackened and Clint shoved away from him. He cradled his arm against his chest, weighing whether or not he could still use it.

Tony scrambled a few feet away but stayed on the floor, his hand outstretched. "Whoa, easy, EASY!" he shouted.

Clint made a move to come at him again, and Tony reluctantly squeezed his hand into a fist. The large red and gold ring on his finger shifted to encompass his entire hand in a miniature repulser. Clint stopped short of reaching him, but still stood over the Avenger, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Easy," Tony said again, more calmly than before. He took a deep breath, as much to steady himself as it was to calm Clint if even for a moment. "We can talk this out—"

"Do you think that's going to stop me?" Clint asked suddenly, indicating the blaster. "You think that's all it's going to take. You think you could kill me, Stark, is that it? I'm ready to hit you until I feel you go limp. Then I'm ready to keep on hitting until I can't recognize you anymore. That's what I'm going to do."

Tony's face paled involuntarily. He chanced a glance toward Peter who was in no position to lend assistance. It wasn't that Tony necessarily needed it, he was just trying to understand what the hell he'd walked into. In the back of his mind, he was thinking about Happy who had likely heard the alarm in the car which sounded anytime Tony activated one of his miniature devices. Happy had the full fledged Iron Man gear and a Glock 45 ready for backup at a moment's notice.

"You've been here," Tony said calmly, "Helping out. Plain sight, I should have thought of that."

"Don't patronize me—"

"I'm not!" Tony insisted. His hand was still up, repulser buzzing in his palm, ready to stun.

"Yes you are, that's all you do. Your way or the highway. In or out. No middle ground."

Without warning, Clint shot forward, faster than Tony could blink. His hand triggered the repulser, but Clint dodged it, slammed Tony's hand to one side, and clamped down on Stark's throat. He squeezed, not enough to hurt him, but enough to make Tony's eyes go wide in fear.

"Don't!" Peter exclaimed. He looked around him, found one of the woodworkers chisels, and began prying the web fluid off the desktop. "Stop! He doesn't know! He didn't know anything! Mr. Barton! Please, let him go!"

Tony's eyes flicked between Peter and then back to Clint.

Clint only nodded. "Go ahead," he whispered, his grip tightening enough to make Tony gasp. "Think about it. Think long and hard. Think about everything you made us give up for your grudge match with Cap."

Tony tried to break Clint's grip, but the ex-Avenger was waiting for that. He mercilessly snapped two fingers on Tony's hand, forcing the repulser off it. Stark's other arm was pinned beneath Clint's knees as Hawkeye lorded over him. Trapped.

"He—" Tony swallowed, flexing his neck muscles to try and gain a fraction of air from Clint's merciless grip. "He—covered up—my parents'—my parents' murder."

"So what?!" Clint snarled. "So you lost your family. You didn't get love enough. You grew up alone. To hell with you, Stark, you had a family until you were old enough to run out on them and had enough money to afford it. I was seven when my parents died! I got a slap in the face and an orphanage. You tore us apart for what? For your own ego!"

"You—had—a—choice," Tony ground out.

"Cap shows up on your doorstep asking for help, and you think I had a choice?" Clint whispered. "I asked for help too. You know what I got?" he pressed a little harder. Tony watched as the edges of his vision began to go dark. "Nothing. You. Cap. Nothing. No one. They're dead Tony. My wife. My kids. They're dead and it's all your fault."

Tony could feel reality slipping away from him the harder Clint squeezed. Regardless, the words had all the impact Clint expected them too.

"No," Tony whispered.

"Dead," Clint repeated, shaking to his core. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. Behind him, Parker was nearly free. The kid was using all his strength to stretch the final tendrils of web fluid. Up the hall there were echoes of running footsteps. Reinforcements.

"It wasn't going to stop at the Sokovia Accords, Tony, you knew that. Ratifications. Round ups. Lists. Catalogues of any powered being. They found my family, Tony, they found Laura, and because of her, they found my kids."

Tony could feel Clint's resolve shaking. Though the archer's grip on him loosed, Tony didn't find breathing any easier. The full impact of what Clint was saying to him hit full force. They were dead. Clint's perfect family, who wasn't always perfect. The little girl in the pink tutu's carrying Thor's hammer. The little boy, dyslexic, building out Tony's spare hover fliers. The baby. Clint knew what loss was. He and his wife buried babies they'd lost trying to make a family of their own. It wasn't sunshine or rainbows, but it was theirs and secretly, and not so secretly, Tony always envied them.

Suddenly Clint hit him. It wasn't hard, not like before, but enough to get Tony's attention.

"Stop it," Clint shot at him. "Stop making this about you!"

"Clint—" Tony gasped.

Clint hit him again. He was pulling punches now. His arm was cocked for another but he didn't let it fly. Tony was a sight to see, flattened out beneath him, covered in blood, with Clint's free hand on his throat. Tony could breathe now, could see through the haze of red stinging through his eyes. In a moment, Clint would roll off of him if Tony gave him the time to return to his senses.

There was a flash of black suit filling the doorway. A silver and red briefcase hit the floor. Parker screamed. Tony remembered trying to sit up. He shouted, "No, no, no!" at the bodyguard who arrived to save him. It was too late. Before he could be stopped, Happy did the only thing that made sense given the scene he walked into.

He fired the first shot.

Tony looked up as Clint pitched forward, arching his back. His right hand reached behind him, as if to feel for the sudden hot sting that burred a hole through him. Red exploded in the center of his chest. His pupils dilated like dish pans. All at once his body began to grow slack and fold in on itself. Still screaming, Tony shot upright and cradled Clint into his arms. Blood, tissue, frayed and splintered bone rested around that new hole in Clint's shirt. Tony's hand hovered over it, unsure whether pressing down would cause more harm.

"No, Clint, don't you dare. Don't you dare leave like this," Tony muttered. He lifted his head to the smoking gun in the doorway and the young hero frozen in place. "Call an ambulance! He isn't dead, get someone the Hell down here!"

"Oh my God, it's Clint," Happy gasped. His hands dropped to his sides. The gun clattered to the floor.

"HELP!" Tony screamed. His mind blank in pain and emotion. "He's dying, someone do something!"

Peter grabbed his suit out of his bag and was dressed instantly. This time, he had to be the hero.

* * *

O.

M.

G.

What will happen? How evil will I be? Will Clint live? Will Tony ever forgive himself? Where is the rest of the team?! Stay tuned! Only one. Chapter. Left. (or is there?)


	10. Chapter 10

Guest (Clint better be alive...) oh, I can do such lovely things to our archer...

Guest (killed everyone) : maybe not everyone...

utemia : everyone would like to believe that everyone is dead... Or no one is dead... Can we split the difference?

ELOSHAZZY :this will only be the start of your tears

I'm the lonely life : oh I do hope you enjoy the rest of this painful series, and the Hawkeye initiative that came before it!

Batghost : always a cliffy

mafiabro : bahahahahaha. Because I can!

Chapter 10

There were no windows, no skylights, and no opportunities to allow a curious populace to intrude on the private vigil taking place within. Cold steel lined the floor. An easily sterilized alternative to the warm hardwood that lined most of the compound. Tony found himself staring at the brushed metal for a long time, distracted by the idea that he'd ever created this room at all. He never realizing then what purpose it would serve. Originally, he'd meant this to be a place for Banner to conduct whatever biological experiments he'd need. That required a good deal of sterility as well as privacy. It had long tables, cold, recirculated air, and row lights recessed into the ceiling that were, in Tony's opinion, too bright. He'd turned them off the minute they'd laid Clint inside.

A long white curtain from floor to ceiling cut the dissection lab in half. What remained nearest the door was a single slab, a figure placed on top of it covered in a blanket they'd stolen from Clint's old room. Tony Stark sat on a metal folding chair beside the slab.

"Tell me," Tony whispered, not looking up at the sentient being who just entered the door.

Across from him, Wanda leaned against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Shoulders shaking. She hid her tears in the edge of her jacket. She was the first of the fallen Avengers to arrive. Rhodes and Sam were outside in the hall, keeping the compound in lockdown. It was no mystery that just beyond their sealed walls, swarms of reporters, helicopters, and world leaders gathered. The news hit before any of them thought it would.

Vision stood at the door, silently at first, until Tony forced himself to look up at him.

"Tell me," Tony growled.

Vision took a step forward, Wanda followed him with her eyes. "Clint was just released from his incarceration at the time. The Registration Act went into effect, as a subheading of the Sokovia Accords, and our government had already planned and implemented the Biomarker sensors necessary to locate the signature of Inhuman DNA."

"What are you talking about?" Wanda demanded, leaning forward off the wall.

Vision glanced back at her. "Being Inhuman, or harboring such DNA which may be converted in an enhanced individual, requires registration in these states as of the signature of the Accords."

"What's that have to do with Clint?" Tony snapped.

Vision slowly looked back at him. "Apparently, Clint Barton's wife, and subsequently their children, carried Inhuman genes. Laura's powers had—" Vision paused, receiving a glowering look from Tony. It was obvious the Stark knew already what Laura could do, "Her powers manifested. She had not registered, and therefore she was tracked down and approached with caution."

"Dear God," Wanda breathed, turning away and hiding her face in her hand.

"They killed her," Tony snapped.

Vision pressed his lips together, his sign of discomfort. "It was not so simple."

"They—SHIELD—US—WE—KILLED HER," Tony roared, standing from his chair and spanning the distance between Vision and himself in a few short strides. Blood stained his hands. Two of his fingers had been splinted together, though they continued to throb from untended fractures. His shirt had been hastily changed, and was unkept and wrinkled. His nose crooked and eyes black, from the beating Clint had given him. "It doesn't get anymore uncomplicated than that. Yes or no. That's it. Yes or no!"

"She's dead," Vision settled on emotionlessly.

Besides him, Wanda gasped. Her hand dropped down to her mouth, eyes focused on Tony.

"The kids?" Tony questioned.

Vision shook his head slightly. "It was an accident. They approached, she ran. The car drove off the road. SHIELD intervened. It was too late—"

Tony scoffed and turned away from him, shaking indignantly. His head throbbed from the punches Clint hadn't pulled. They might have left their mark on his face, but more so on his soul. He faltered, listed sideways, and dropped himself into the chair again before he fell there. Vision took half a step forward to ask if he was all right, but Tony threw him off with his splinted hand.

"All of his kids?" Wanda whispered.

Vision nodded.

"Where are they?"

Vision looked at Tony. "Where are who?"

"The bodies, the kids, his wife, where are they?" Tony snapped. "Where are they?"

"According to my information, they were confiscated—"

Wanda gasped again. "They're little children, they aren't murderers. How could anyone justify such a thing? Can't they be buried?"

"It was not SHIELD who took them. Apparently, their resources state someone arrived and destroyed the entire envoy. Those who lived through the crash, were found with their necks snapped. Their cervical vertebrae dislodged. None survived. It is generally assumed that Clint had something to do with the murders." Before Tony could respond, Vision's attention shifted. He glanced back toward the door, then forward again. "He is here. He would like to enter, but will not without being invited. I have taken the liberty of relating to him what it is we know of the circumstances."

"That Clint's dead? That his family was murdered and—"

"Tony," Wanda breathed.

"Don't say it," Tony said, shaking his head at her, he turned back toward Clint.

Vision took his own initiative and went to the door. Touching the latch, it sprang open to reveal the remaining members of the Avengers, old and new, waiting outside.

After the shooting, it fell on Parker, the only level-headed person in the room, to contact the necessary people. The first call went to the ER. Their response time was immediate and before three minutes passed, Clint was hauled off in the back of an ambulance. Cops met them at the hospital. Within ten minutes half the news agencies in the world knew that Clint Barton was found on American soil. SHIELD appeared and so did Pepper Potts. Peter didn't know what she'd said to them to keep the black suits shaking in their shoes, but apparently it was enough that they backed off and let the doctors work.

In the end, it wasn't enough. Clint Barton, Hawkeye, was dead.

They loaded his body into a private helicopter and transported him immediately to the Avenger's compound which went into lockdown. Over time, the rest of the shattered teammate arrived.

T'Challa paced in the hall. Bruce, inexplicably, crawled from whatever hole he'd hidden in and joined them. Only Thor, still trapped in Asgard, and Natasha, had not come. Sam and Rhodes glanced up at the figure in the center of them all. Steve Rogers looked more haggard now than ever before, even after his escape from the ice. A long unkempt beard decorated his chin. He glanced over Vision into the room where Tony and Wanda were. The body in the cold slab was only half covered. The face was pale, void, eyes unfocussed and tinged in blood.

Seeing Clint with his own eyes, Steve swallowed hard. His chest was tight. His mouth dropped open slightly as if he might try to ask a question, but no words came to him. There was little he could say.

"Get out," Tony shouted from inside the room. He thundered to his feet again, shot through the open door before anyone could stop him, and launched himself at Steve. He caught a fistful of Steve's shirt and wound back a fist. For his part, Rogers only staggered a few paces under the force of Tony's attack. His hands were up. He wouldn't fight back. There was shouting on all sides, pushing, shoving, attempts to drag one side away from another. At the epicenter of them all, Tony and Rogers stood, toe-to-toe.

"This won't help—" Steve tried to say.

Tony tightened his grip and shook once, hard. "Shut up!" he snapped. "Just shut up, don't say a d- word. You don't get to. None of us do. This is on us. We killed him. You and me—this—this killed him. He came to you the minute you needed help, and you ignored him when he wanted the same. You did, I did. Everyone who didn't pick up the d- phone when Clint screamed over his dead wife and his dead kids." Tony opened his hand and shoved Steve back another pace. He was still shaking when he asked, "Natasha?"

"I thought she'd be here," Steve admitted.

"She's not. I don't know where she is. No one does. You think she'd at least come out for this. They were friends, once. I guess that word really does mean nothing to this team." Tony went back into the room, or he attempted too. A swell of dizziness cut through him and for the first time, he couldn't catch himself. Steve hurried forward and grabbed Tony around the waist. He cradled him out of the hall and into the reception room. Peter moved ahead of them and cleared a spot on the couch. Most of the Avenger's had thrown their travel gear on the cushions when they arrived. Steve set Tony down.

"What's wrong? Tony, you all right?" Steve asked, voice pitched in concern.

"Mr. Stark was injured in his fight with Clint Barton, though he has declined medical attention." Vision told them, arriving behind the troop.

"Mr. Hawkeye beat him pretty good," Peter announced.

"It's not—that—" Tony slurred his words. He took a few, shallow breaths. His hand reached up to his shirt and pulled down on his collar.

Steve leaned forward, noted the blood, and working on instinct, he pulled Tony's shirt into two shreds. A makeshift bandage had been tapped in a mound over Tony's chest.

"Through and through," Stark managed to say. His eyes closed. "I'm a shrapnel magnet.

"My God, Tony," Bruce exclaimed, pulling Steve away so he could take up a spot at Stark's side. The bullet wound was high and deep, into his chest, but not back out again. It had been more than a day since Clint's death, a day of waiting for everyone to gather, and to reach the Avengers training center. The same bullet which ended Clint propelled directly through Tony as well.

"Suicidal now, Tony?" Bruce ground out in frustration. "There are better ways of getting attention than getting yourself killed. You should have said something. You could have said anything!

"Is it bad?" Steve asked.

Bruce cast a glance over his shoulder at him. "Get help. Or we're lose him too."

There was a sudden flux of movement. The training center had been emptied, medical center included, to allow the disbanded team members a chance to grieve in without fear of being immediately arrested. Newsmen lined up for a chance to photograph the dead Clint Barton. The world over, everyone spoke about the first death of an Avenger, mortality, and the ultimate sacrifice. Some spoke of Barton as a terrorist, finally put in his grave, others only wished for comfort to his friends and family. Through those hordes of news reporters and gawkers, a revved up Challenger RT split the crowd in half. The driver, a familiar red-head with her eyes hidden beneath a pair of thick shades forced her way to the compound gates. The ground dropped into a hidden decline, leading to an underground parking center. Before the reporters could scramble around the car again, the ground snapped back up on hidden hydraulic lifts until the seams of the hidden driveway had vanished completely.

Above their heads, lightning split the sky. Thunder shook the air like a sonic blast. Suddenly a figure streaming a red cape dropped through the swirl of storm clouds onto the roof of the Avengers Compound. That quickly, the final two member of the team joined all the others already within.

After leaving her car parked, Natasha entered through the front door, said nothing to Rhodes who'd let her in, and stalked instantly toward the cluster of movement in the center room. She stood there only a moment, analyzing the scene. In many ways, she tried not to be surprised. She heard their questions, their accusations against her. Heard the demands wondering where she had been and how had she come back. Heard them, even as Bruce and Steve worked together to get Tony on his feet, as Wanda pressed her hand against the bullet wound he'd tried to hide. To the side of her, a separate door opened on the level above them. Thor appeared there, having come directly down from the roof. He took the stairs, a multitude at a time, and stopped at the end of the staircase just in front of Tony.

"We didn't think you'd come," Bruce told him sincerely.

The Asgardian was stone faced. He wore his traditional winged helmet, his red cape, and his golden armor built for the period of mourning and formal ceremonies. Thor took in Tony's appearance and said, "I know of what's occurred. I will conduct our friend to his home."

"You're taking him?" Tony said, trying to shrug out of Steve and Bruce's grip.

"Natasha and I have both located his wife and children," Thor said, just as flat and emotionless as he could muster. The muscles on his neck were tight. It was obvious how much it took him to remain passive and calm while inside he rolled in a cyclone of emotion. His fingers clenched. "I've—I've buried them," He took in a breath, steadying himself, and said, "Laura, Nathaniel, Cooper, and . . . and Lila. We have buried them."

"Where?" Tony asked.

"Where the rest of them are," Natasha told him. She didn't need to elaborate any more than that. Laura and Clint didn't have the easiest time creating their family. They'd had, and lost, many kids in their hope of making their life complete. Each one of them was buried at Clint and Laura's first farmhouse, a plot of land in the middle of nowhere with small gravestones clustered together.

"For the honor of his daughter, a true child of Asgard, I wish only to give him the rest that he seeks. After all he has gone through to join them once more," Thor said. It was no mystery his love for Clint's daughter, Lila. She had always considered him her favorite Avenger, and often dressed like the Asgardian every day. Lila named her kitten Odin in honor of Thor's father, her pony was Sleiphner, that eight legged Asgardian horse. Clint's daughter loved Thor as much as she did her own mother and father, and Thor loved her even more.

If Tony wanted to protest, he couldn't find the words to do it. In his mind, he'd already planned the funeral out. He planned parades and fireworks, speeches, and a huge public display about just what he thought of his government, the UN, and everything the Inhuman initiative had done. He planned to make a statement. He planned to take a stand. Thor's plan, though, was better. Tony knew just by looking at him, and the determination on Natasha's face, that no matter what Tony felt about the situation, they would win and he would lose.

"Take him," Steve said, interrupting the solemnity around them. He adjusted Tony across his shoulders, pulling a groan from the Iron Man's lips. "We'll visit him there. Together."

Thor pressed his hand against Tony's arm, squeezed, and let go. With little more than that, Thor moved out of their way. He swiped his hand across his eyes to dispel the tear clinging to the corner of it. As he moved, he glanced over at the young Spider-Man who still stood at Clint's door, watching.

"You have guarded our friend well," Thor told him. "Heimdall spoke of your courage, your sentiment, and your persistence. From the depths of my heart, I thank you."

Peter nodded. "I—I'm not sure what to do now," Peter admitted to him.

Natasha came up beside him. "No one has the answers to that, kid. Least of all him." She indicated Clint's body. Thor had moved away to stand over the bedside.

"He helped me so much," Peter whispered.

"That was his job."

"It was more than that," Peter looked up at her. "He was like a—"

"A father?"

Peter looked away from her. "Maybe. I guess so."

Thor carefully wrapped Clint's body in the bed sheet before removing his cape and draping it over him. Once set, he reached beneath Clint's body and lifted him into his arms. Natasha moved away from the doorway as Thor carried his friend out. Peter didn't stay long, watching as the Avengers, all of the Avengers, said a final goodbye to the friend that they knew, loved, and cared so much for despite their anger and every physical boundary separating them. Peter, instead, slipped away quietly.

The basement was relatively safe, and empty. He'd driven up with Happy, though it was actually Pepper Potts who did most of the driving. Stark's bodyguard remained in the back of the car, head in his hands, shaking uncontrollably over the events. No one could console him, though many had tried. Tony was in the front passenger seat. He was half asleep most of the trip, silent as the grave. He popped more than his fair share of Ibuprofen and, given the bullet wound he hid beneath his shirt, it made sense he wasn't as interactive as usual.

Peter hadn't exactly figured out how he was going to get home. Part of him toyed with the idea of borrowing a car, though when Mr. Stark felt better, he'd likely be grounded for that. Calling a taxi to get him out of the training center when every street was lined in cop cars and reporters didn't sound like the best idea either for a kid who hadn't exactly come out of his secret identity. The best idea was also the simplest. He had his Spider-Man outfit in his back pack. A web slinger leaving the mansion was at least a more acceptable alternative. The press would eat it up, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

He sank to the floor in an alcove of the basement, sat his back pack in front of him, and began rooting through the contents. He came up to a pause when he saw the red/brown stain over the top of it. The memories were hard to forget. Tearing his hand loose from the table top, running across the room to where Tony and Clint were locked together, rolling Clint to the side, seeing the blood—Peter knew what it felt like to watch his uncle die. He never thought he'd be a witness to another death as painful as that.

He tried to shake the memories away, and reached into his bag to find his suit. His hand stopped when it hit something he didn't expect. His fingers wrapped around a slip of paper. Lifting it up, he recognized the hand writing at once.

- _Kid_ -

"Mr. Hawkeye?" he whispered to himself. When was it put in there? How long had it been there? Hurriedly, he unfolded the paper. It was written on an old plane ticket, one that had been bought online and printed on copy paper. The name on the ticket was Natasha Romanov. The flight was from Zurich to Montana almost a year ago. The same time Clint's family was murdered.

Peter turned the letter over and hurriedly began to read.

 _Bugboy-_

 _I told you once to stop trying to save people, to not care about anyone. I wish it were that easy, but for the sake of being honest, it's not. It sucks. People suck, but you will love them anyway. You'll get shot. You'll get stabbed. You'll probably get killed for the ones you love. I know I did._

 _I wouldn't have it any other way._

 _There will be times you wish you could change who you are and what you do. It'll be the same time that the people you love get hurt because of the sacrifices you make. You can never bring those people back, so dwelling on that loss and the woulda-coulda is bullcrap. Don't do it._

 _I have to move on. I've been hiding out in this high school too long, ignoring who I am. Pretending the world's just going to fix itself. It won't. Me, Tony, Steve, all of us made a mistake and now it's time that one of us steps up to try and fix it. It won't be easy, and I blame you for this, but I've got to go be the hero again. Tony's too stupid and stubborn to do it himself. I might have to break his nose. Don't worry, he'll deserve it._

 _If there's one thing I want you to do, it's to learn how to forgive. Start with yourself, then use that superpower on others. If not, it will tear you and the one's you love apart._

 _Thanks for taking my gun away. And keep my tie._

 _P.S. I told Aunt May you're Spiderman. She is not happy. You're welcome._

 _Clint._


	11. Epilogue

Jesuslovesmarina: Aw, yeah, i killed him. Again. LOL. I know it's awful, but I absolutely can't help it! Ah, Thor, well that has given me so many opportunities here . . .:)

ELOSHAZZY: More tears! YAY! Yup, it's not called the rabbit hole for nothing!

Batghost: Clint is just awesome, isn't he? And yup, Tony would have completely made it about him!

I'm the lonely life: MUHAHAHAHAHA yet more tears! I have earned my writing badge

Godd3ss: :) Welcome to my world. I'm totally cruel and I love every minute of it.

The Spoiled Duchess: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 _ **1 year ago  
**_ _ **Montana**_

"What do you mean, you're in jail? Like, jail jail, or is this some super hero super max prison? . . . . Of course it's on an island. . . . Steve? You tell Steve, that I am planning for him to break you out and bring you home or else he is uninvited to the family Thanksgiving! . . . I don't care about the Accords, or the UN, Clint, if you are not out of jail by FRIDAY then I am coming there MYSELF and I am breaking you out. . . Oh you WERE in jail . . . NO that doesn't make it better! And you are calling Natasha the minute you get home and you are going to apologize for this . . . . You better. Who? Now?" Laura looked down and checked her wrist watch. "Well, I'm still mad at him. Tell Steve that. And then you, Tony, Steve, and all the rest of you, are going to sit and talk about this. Good bye."

Laura Smith Barton hit the end call button with an angry jab and threw the cell phone into the bottom of the shopping cart. It was just her luck that her absentee husband decided to cut out in the middle of their planned family vacation to shoot off to parts unknown with Steve Rogers in tow. It was harder to keep a leash on Clint than a stray dog! Just thinking about it, Laura stewed not so privately, forcing her son to glance up from his Starkpad at her.

"Dad got arrested again?" It was a statement from Cooper, not a question. His lack of concern disturbed Laura more than the fact that it was true.

"That's one way to put it," Laura said. "I hate that you can say "again" and it's completely reasonable."

"Guess the trip's canceled?"

"Uncle Steve broke him out. Your dad's on his way home. I'll take us to the lake. Maybe Jake Red Fox will come with his grandmom and dad'll catch up. Aunt Nat should be on her way already." Laura started pushing the shopping cart down the aisle. Cooper went along beside her. Baby Nathaniel oohed from the car seat rocking back and forth in the bottom of the cart. Lila, in the meantime, had made twelve friends, collected two My Little Pony booklets, and vanquished a dented corn can with her helmet.

"I saw on the news Uncle Steve's a terrorist," Cooper went on.

Laura stopped at the end of the aisle and looked at her son. "Uncle Steve's not a terrorist. He's being an idiot, but if every idiot is a terrorist, then so is Uncle Tony. They're having a fight, that's all. You and your sister have fights, so what do I make you do?"

"Wear the friendship shirt and tie us together?" Cooper supplied, smiling.

Laura nodded. "Yup. We're going to make Uncle Steve and Uncle Tony wear the friendship shirt for a week."

Cooper laughed at the ridiculousness of that prospect, after all, how would they go to the bathroom? He followed his mom back toward the regular produce and looked around for his sister. Lila was easy to spot today. She decided to don a yellow and pink tu-tu, her Thor helmet, and was swinging an imitation battle ax. There were two little squeakers in her shoes that made a characteristic chirp every time she walked. Clint installed them himself when she had a propensity to wander off to "vanquish evil", which neither Clint, nor Laura, truly grasped.

Cooper slipped his Starkpad into his back pocket and strolled to the next aisle over. He craned his head left and right, then noticed her standing down one aisle. She was ogling the Avengers' fronted cereal. Her fingers reached up, her fist curled, and suddenly she was pretending to pick the nose of Tony Stark on the Kelog box. Cooper smiled and went over to her.

"Hey, did you hear mom? She's probably gonna break dad's leg."

"How does Uncle Tony blow his nose in his suit?" Lila asked.

Cooper's eyebrow arched. He looked at the box, and then his sister. "Uh, I don't know. I never asked. I bet he has like an internal vacuum system or something for that."

"He doesn't carry a hankee."

"No, I don't think he does."

"Does he get wedgies?"

Cooper shrugged. "Maybe."

She hummed to herself, thinking about the little scenarios in her head. Cooper tugged the back of her shirt and they turned together in the direction of their mom. They hadn't reached the end of the aisle before Cooper stopped suddenly. Laura had circled the aisle behind them, took Cooper by the shoulders, and pressed her hand around his mouth. Instantly, Cooper reached out and snatched tighter to Lila's shirt. They flattened back behind a cart together and crouched down. Nathaniel rocked in a car seat beside them. There, standing at the end of the aisle directly ahead of them was a single man. He wore combat gear, thick steel-toed boots, and the words SHIELD emblazoned across his chest. Laura's blood ran cold. Her fingers nails inadvertently dug into Cooper's skin.

The agent glanced down into the cart that held Laura's shopping and cell phone. He reached in with his gloved hands, lifted the phone, and slipped it into his pocket. He looked around. His head swiveled back and forth. Then he moved away toward the front entrance.

Laura tugged a lock of Cooper's hair and suddenly they all moved together. Laura set Nathaniel on the ground in his seat, prompting Cooper to instantly pick him up. Lila held her battle ax, fit her Asgardian helmet over her ears, and readied for war. Laura glanced out of the aisle and quickly drew back. She motioned to her kids and, wordlessly, they headed for the back of the store.

There was a second exit by the bathrooms, tucked away in a little corner passed the frozen food and the lines of milk substitutes. The aisles all came to an end at the same point before a horizontal stand split the open alley into equal halves. They passed out of the long aisles, ducked, crossed to the horizontal stand, and directly in front of them was the back door.

Laura stopped.

A line of black uniformed men and women appeared to their immediate right. Each brandished weapons. Each turned directly toward them. Her breath caught in her chest. Before she had a chance to back peddle away, the SHIELD team started in her direction.

"Laura Smith!" One of the agents yelled. "Inhuman! Inhuman, STOP!"

"RUN!" Laura shouted.

The kids went first. She threw the keys to Cooper, who caught them mid-air, and, with Nathaniel in one hand and Lila hurrying beside him, they shot out the back of the store together. Cooper threw himself into the door, setting off an overhead alarm at the same time and startling the two agents waiting outside. Within a moment, Lila was swinging her battle ax. At eight years, nine months old, she threw her muscles into each stroke and left a couple of broken kneecaps in the wake of her onslaught. With an Asgardian war-cry on her lips, she went sailing after her brother across the parking lot.

Laura hurried after them. The first in the line of black suits were on top of her in moments though they might have assumed they had the upper hand given their numbers and advanced weaponry.

How wrong they were.

The moment a hand fell on her shoulder, a switch flipped, and all hell broke loose. She tore the man off his feet, threw him head first into an aisle of feminine hygiene products, and attacked the next one in the line. A gun went off close to her ear to decimate a bottle of Silk Soy Milk. Laura snatched it away, turned it around, and landed three bullets into the chest of the closest agent. Three seconds later she emptied the remaining clip into the last three assailants. Laura was out the door before any could recover their senses enough to follow. After all, Laura Barton was an Inhuman, a person born with the dregs of DNA from an alien race, awakened to a power none could have anticipated. Instead of shooting electricity from her hands, teleportation, or suffering bodily disfigurement, Laura had a particular gift. She could absorb the talents of those nearest to her. Clint learned not to sneak up on her anymore, he'd suffered enough bruised ribs and near stabbings to account for all due caution. Apparently, while SHIELD had news of her Inhuman Status, they had no idea what storm they'd just rolled into.

By the time Laura made it into the parking lot, Cooper already had Nathaniel buckled in, Lila in the backseat, and Cooper himself was slamming the car full throttle out of the intersection. Laura ran as fast as she could, watching as three SHIELD SUVs screamed to life in the center of the shopping complex. She wasn't sure who they were, how they found her, but there was one thing Clint always drilled into them. Run. Run hard. Run fast. Do not look back.

Cooper caught sight of her before he crashed out of the parking-lot and cut a hard left. He floored the accelerator and went screaming to a stop only a few feet away from her. He kicked the driver's side door open and seamlessly moved across the bench seat of the wagon into the passenger spot. He didn't bother putting the car in park. Laura slid through the open door and pulled it shut before jamming the gas pedal down.

Lila was stoic, sitting in her booster seat in the back of the wagon as she watched her mother's face in the reflection of the rearview mirror. Cooper at first was concerned. He'd been abducted by men before. Back then his father came to his rescue and in the end, everything turned out well. He knew Clint would come again and, if not Clint, then Thor. The Hulk. Iron Man. Vision. One of a half dozen superheroes sworn to defend each other's families regardless of the cost. If they were taken, they would be saved.

The gunshots caught them all by surprise. This time, being taken alive, apparently didn't matter. The Barton family had always been bargaining chips, now they were liabilities. And liabilities could be murdered.

Bullets tore through the station wagon from driver to passenger side.

Red splattered the windshield and suddenly Laura released a sudden scream.

"Mommy?!" Cooper cried.

The wagon's wheel jerked in her grip as she involuntarily shifted sideways. She corrected- then over corrected- and swiftly got the tires back in the right side of the double yellow lines. Her mouth ran dry, but she managed to say, "Mommy's ok. Mommy's ok. Coop—Coop get mommy's gun. Get the gun."

Another rip of bullets blasted through the air, shattering the rear windshield. Lila threw herself over top of Nathanial while Cooper ducked down to try and find the .357 Magnum tacked beneath the front seat. Clint put it there a year and a half ago for safety. Cooper had seen his mother shoot it three times, each time she was taking down a wandering bear that crept too close to their camp.

The first SUV rammed into them. The wagon lurched sideways, across the small shoulder and into the side of the road. The shoulder was unforgiving. A short guard rail led to a rocky drop off straight down the Montana canyon side. A journey there meant not coming back unscathed. Laura yanked the wheel, pulling the wagon by brute strength back onto the main road. She could feel blood seeping down the front of her shirt but couldn't brave a glance down at herself.

Under the force of cars colliding together, the Magnum slid out from under the seats and rattled under Cooper's leg. Suddenly, he pulled his seat belt free, leaned forward and grabbed the gun. He clicked his belt back into place, reached for the steering wheel, and handed the gun to his mother.

She rolled the window down and emptied the cylinder into the front tire of the first car while Cooper steadied the wheel. The SUV peeled away, but the second one shot forward to take its place. Laura took the wheel back, passing the gun to Cooper. He popped open the glove box to find the spare rounds Laura kept there.

"MOMMY!" Lila screamed.

The second SUV slammed into their back end, throwing the station wagon into a tailspin. Cooper lost his grip on the handgun which went spinning into the windshield, smashing it into a spider web of cracks.

Another hit.

The wagon was forced off the road a second time. Cooper smacked into the side door head first and suddenly he went limp.

Lila screamed.

She cried out for her mother, her father, for Thor himself and the rainbow bridge of Heimdall to open as the drop off of the Montana countryside came closer and closer. Time slowed. The SUVs pulled away, only long enough to work up momentum to cross the two-lane highway and T-bone the station wagon head on.

The small guardrail gave way. Laura released the steering wheel and threw herself sideways across Cooper.

A rapport of gunshots peppered the station wagon as it rocketed down the side of the rocky Montana hills. A short boulder slammed into them part way, crushing the bottom half of the passenger side and sending the station wagon into a roll.

The SUVs pulled up to the edge of the roadway. The tires stopped over gravel and their doors popped open as geared agents stepped out onto the asphalt to see the results of their work. Sun-glassed eyes followed the tumbling car as it came to its final rest on four deflated tires.

:(:):(:):

The Bifrost opened and closed in an instant. Ten figures rushed out of the dazzle of lights in the center of the old Asgardian runes and descended onto the center of the wreckage instantly. A tall dark figure, wielding a horse-killer sword, led the charge. He was larger than most men and Asgardians combined, his two horned helmet reflected the light of the sun in corn silk gold as he took his sword, swung it over his head, and landed it in the center of a marauding black utility vehicle. The vehicle split in two halves. It sailed forward for a short distance, its tires spinning automatically, before it came to a smoking stop.

The second vehicle came next. While the other nine Asgardians made their way down the steep embankment after the station wagon and SHIELD agents scrambled like rats, the leader, Heimdall, swung his colossal sword a second time. This time it sliced through the entire upper half of the utility vehicle. The third SUV started up on screeching tires until it was no more than half a foot away from the watcher of Asgard. Heimdall's eyes narrowed at the occupants. The SUV slammed into reverse. The tires screamed as they attempted to gain enough purchase to ride backwards, but Heimdall grabbed it by the bumper and lifted it, one handed, straight up. He swung his sword with the opposite hand and the engine was completely disemboweled.

He dropped the SUV onto its flattened tire remnants and he circled to the driver's side. Inside, he could see passengers scrambling. Guns fired. The bullets pinged uselessly off of his armor plates. Without missing a beat, Heimdall reached into the front of the car, grabbed the first person he could, and yanked him out.

"Stop! Stop, wait! Don't kill me! Don't kill me, please!" the man screamed.

Heimdall shook him roughly. "What have you done?!" he demanded.

"We were only after the Inhumans!" the man exclaimed. "Please, that's all! They're dangerous! We were supposed to get rid—"

Heimdall's attention was pulled away by another wave of rainbow light splitting the sky. He opened his hand, releasing the man in his grip and instead moved off toward the ridge. When the Bifrost closed, Heimdall could see the Son of Odin standing in the center of the rune circle. Thor couldn't hide the horror in his eyes as he took in the destruction before him. The Asgardians were already working the doors of the wagon open. Others scooped sand onto the fires engulfing the engine while the rest carefully extracted the Barton family from inside the twisted remains.

"No!" Thor screamed, rushing across the slope for the family. Heimdall intercepted him part way and held him firmly.

"Wait," the watcher said. "Wait for them."

"Who's done this?!"

"I have taken care of them," Heimdall said.

"Thor!" one of the Asgardians called.

Thor pulled himself free of Heimdall's grip and together the two of them approached the group. Lady Sif, sworn defender of Asgard, cradled a small child against her and laid the girl on the ground. Thor stooped down beside her instantly.

"Lila?" he breathed, "Lila? Is she dead, does she hear me?"

Sif pressed an ear to the girl's chest and, after long troubled moments, she lifted. Her eyes tearful. "She may live."

Thor looked to Heimdall. "Open the portal, bring them to Asgard imme—"

"M'lord?"

Thor turned back to another guardsman. The three other passengers were laid just out of sight, huddled together in a row beside the remaining warriors. The guardsman glanced at the three, then back at Thor.

"I'm sorry, M'lord," he said.

Heimdall pressed his hand into Thor's shoulder as the Asgardian heir faltered. His knees weekend and he rested back in Heimdall's support.

"No," Thor whispered. His eyes fell on Lila, the little girl who would play Valkyrie.

"What would you have us do?" Heimdall asked gently.

Thor reached forward and pressed his hand over the small child's blood-stained cheek. Emotion caught the back of his throat, constricting it. Fighting through the anger and pain, he said, "Take their assailants. Lock them in the holding cells until I can decide what will be done with them. Find Clint Barton and have him brought to me at once. As for them," Thor's eyes rested on the family of his friend. "Bring them to Asgard. If they can be saved, we will do whatever we must."

:(:):(:):

"WHERE IS SHE?! LET GO OF ME? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?! WHERE'S MY DAUGHTER! LET ME GO!"

Clint's exclamations preceded him as he marched through the gold gilded halls of the Asgardian world. He tore himself away from the Warriors Three who tried to lead him onward. Frantic desperation kept him throwing his shoulder into every doorway, bursting into random rooms along the medical wing to try and find where his family had been taken.

Thor heard his fellow Avenger before he saw him. The Asgardian stepped into the great hall, a pensive look setting his jaw, as he waited for Clint to see him. It didn't take long. Barton broke away from the Three and rushed toward Thor. He grabbed the Asgardian by the shoulders and shook him.

"WHERE ARE THEY?!" Clint demanded. His face was horrified and ghastly white.

"My friend, please," Thor tried to say, his voice was low and even. Instantly Clint moved to push past him and into the room Thor had come out of. Thor, though, held Clint roughly back. "Clint, stop!"

"Where are they?" Clint whispered desperately. "Thor, where are they? Where are my kids? Where's Laura? Why are they here? Why did you bring me here?"

Thor's fingers tightened. At Clint's back, the Warriors Three waited for a signal from Thor. The son of Odin nodded once to them and they slowly retreated away to grant the two Avengers some semblance of privacy.

"Thor?" Clint whispered. All hope drained from his eyes.

"There is no easy way to speak these words to you, Clint," Thor said. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stared directly at his friend. He could feel the energy draining out of Barton, as if his very soul was filtering away, one grain of sand at a time. "Your family was attacked for nothing more than the genes they carried. This had nothing to do with you, or who you are. You could not have prevented this. Do you hear me?"

A strangled cry lifted from Clint's lips. The archer grew weak. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor. Thor followed him down and the two sat in the middle of the hall together. Distant guards on their patrols paused at the sight in front of them and turned to keep others away. Thor hurriedly related what he knew for certain. Laura had been killed, in the crash most likely though the bullet wound the healers found sitting beside her heart would have ended her soon enough. Cooper was dead. Crushed. Quick. He didn't suffer. Nathaniel . . . There Thor paused. Clint was rocked in horror. He wasn't moving, wasn't speaking, he'd gone completely catatonic the longer Thor explained how it had all happened.

"But Lila," Thor said cautiously, "she survived the crash. She is very ill, my friend, I don't know whether she will –"

"Where is she?" Clint managed to say.

Thor indicated the door beside them. "She is not awake. They are unsure if she ever will be again."

"The people who did this?"

"Imprisoned in the catacombs here, beneath our feet," Thor told him. "I will see they are punished for their crimes, but do not concern yourself with their welfare. Go to your child. Stay with her."

:(:):(:):

The Asgardians should have kept Clint Barton under lock and key. They were too trusting, expecting that a father grieving from the death of his family might be so distracted by the survival of one, he wouldn't seek retribution. Whatever sentiments they harbored were wrong. Thor realized his mistake too late. He'd assumed too much of a man who had lost virtually everything he had fought his entire life to keep. Thor did not fault Clint for what grief drove him to do, but then again, Thor would never forget the scene he walked into among the catacombs.

A battalion of palace guards stood in a ring around the lowered walls of the Midgardians' prison. Within, half a dozen agents who claimed SHIELD affiliation were cautiously waiting to learn their fate. Thor knew they would be returned to Earth. What government he turned them over to, remained to be seen. Already the Avengers themselves had fractured apart. Asgard itself was in the throws of confusion following the attack by the Dark Elves. The last thing Thor's father needed was Midgard's troubles thumping on his gates, and yet when Lila called, not a soul could refuse the honest plea.

Now, those troubles expounded a thousand fold. Thor parted the throngs of his guardsmen with his presence alone until he could see into the cell for himself. His stomach turned sour. Bile rose to the back of his mouth, forcing him to swallow to keep the sickness down.

"Odin's Beard," Thor murmured.

Clint sat on the raised edge of the prison cell. A sword rested in a puddle of blood at his feet. Behind him, the bodies of the agents lay in piles of snapped necks, slashed flesh, and dissected parts. His revenge had been merciless. Unyeilding. Unsparing.

"What have you done?" Thor whispered, approaching Clint slowly.

Clint didn't answer him or look up from the bloodstained sword laying in front of him.

Thor glanced at the room again, still in disbelief. Clint was an expert marksman. Deadly accurate and as capable at destroying alien invaders as he was at blending into a crowd and disappearing in plain sight. Thor thought he knew him, knew the man that Clint Barton was and what comprised his heart. He never thought Barton capable of this. Thor knelt, leaned forward, and pressed his hand against Clint's hand.

"Clint?"

"I can't stay here," Clint told him, shaking his head. "I . . . I can't face her . . . I wasn't there, Thor, I wasn't there . . . I left them. For what? For Steve? I left her. I promised I was going to stay, I broke my word to her . . ."

"She can forgive, she is a child, and you are all she has," Thor pressed. "Do not abandon her here."

"She has you. She's safer here. Of earth, away from this, away from me, away from them. . ."

Thor's heart sank in his chest. He looked back at the ring of guardsmen, all who watched the man before them with a mixture of fear and distrust. There would be none amongst them ready to appeal on Clint's behalf. Thor also knew he was no father. He had no children of his own, he'd hardly held a commitment to any at all for longer than a score of years. Thor would speak of these reservations in the days that came. He would try to convince Clint out of his foolish need to run, but these words fell on deaf ears. The Clint Barton that Thor knew vanished the moment Clint was taken to Asgard.

Hawkeye was dead, buried with his family in the dirt. Any hopes of convincing him to remain by Lila's side vanished. In Clint's mind he was as good as a lightning rod to the safety of his only child and nothing short of keeping away from her might save what remained.

Sif tried, Fandral, Hogan, every Asgardian in Thor's employ or friendship went to him with their desperate plea. Clint, though, separated himself from them all He whispered his goodbye's to Lila's bruised and bloodied face and returned to the Bifrost before Lila even had the chance to wake up again. Thor didn't like it, but he honored his friend's request and parted ways with Clint at the graves of his family. The Avengers were shattered, fragments of who they once were. Leaving Clint in the clouds of his own misery and returning to Asgard, and the dying child there, Thor wasn't sure what in this world of his would ever mend the team he had so suddenly lost. There was only a single soul he might reach out too, a distant ally who might, despite their differences, continue in her steady concern over Clint's welfare.

It didn't take Thor long to locate Natasha Romanov. It was to her, Thor entrusted his plans. Natasha handled the remains of Clint's victims on Asgard, and those others he went in search of on Earth. She tracked him across the world as Clint dismantled the infrastructure that ever dared to cross him. She watched him twist and writhe into something she didn't recognize anymore, a darkness that Thor first witnessed.

Eventually, Natasha's demanding work paid off. Clint was not to be influenced directly by normal means, though Natasha knew just the Avenger for the job of getting him to twist in just the right direction. Fortunately, that Avenger also looked at Barton with the loving eyes of a sister to a wayward older brother. The Scarlet Witch loved him in many ways.

She couldn't walk up to him, in the state he was in, and tell him what to do. Clint had to go through the motions, accept the little nudges she provided on his own, and hope for his sincere heart to show in the end. Regardless of all the plans and carefully laid influences she'd placed in Clint's path over the past few months, even Natasha hadn't anticipated Peter Parker. For the first time since Clint's loss, she could see the glimmer of him returning, slowly, every day. Natasha had been touching base with Thor. Clint's daughter was getting better, slowly, every day. Lila missed her daddy. He needed to go home.

:(:):(:):

Peter Parker sat in the alcove of the Avenger Compound's underground garage reading the letter Clint had written to him. He was oblivious to the efforts Thor and Natasha coordinated to surround Clint's life, or the heavily laid plans desperate to bring Clint out of his misery and back to himself. Dread expanded in Peter's chest the further down the lines of Clint's letter he read, right until he got to the point where Clint had outed him to Aunt May. In terror and desperation, Peter thrust his hand into his backpack and retrieved his cell phone. One hundred and nine missed calls and all of them from Aunt May.

He groaned inwardly. Amid his swirling thoughts, the sound of a door opening and closing caught him off guard. He receded back into the shadow of the alcove and looked out as Natasha Romanov, Wanda, and Happy suddenly appeared in the garage together. They were heading to one of Stark's cars.

"I have to get back to Washington. Too many loose ends to clear up. Watch Tony, don't let him or Steve out of this building until they've figured something out," Natasha ordered, stalking to the car. Wanda had to jog to keep up with her longer legs.

"When will we know if he's ok?" Happy said, rushing after her. "I never meant to shoot him. I didn't know he was trying to stage all of this, if he had just said something to me—"

"He didn't know. He couldn't know, because if he did, he might not have gone. He's thick headed just like the rest of them. I don't think even Clint realized how much he wanted to kill Tony until he was already trying to do it," Natasha snapped back. "Besides, Thor didn't say how he is. I know as much as you do."

"He'll live," Wanda affirmed. She lifted a corner of her mouth. "He won't like the headache I gave him, but it will do him some good in the end."

"Is Clint coming back?" Happy asked.

Natasha stopped by the open car door and looked at him. Wanda had already climbed into the passenger seat. "I don't know. But they aren't allowed to know either." She stabbed a finger straight up, indicating the rest of the team with that singular motion. "Clint's trying to get them back together, no matter what it takes. He had planned on going up to Cap and breaking his jaw, then making Stark force feed him smoothies in a locked room together, so look at this as a better alternative. Besides, we've got enough enemies around here without Clint getting tied up in the mix. Hawkeye is dead. Clint's with Thor, and Thor has to go hunt down some devil threatening the end of the world."

"And the kids?" Happy asked. Natasha got into the car, trying to pull the door shut behind her. Happy yanked it right back open. "Hey, look, I wasn't exactly part of this little plot of yours until AFTER I shot him. I'm keeping all your secrets. You owe me something for all this."

"You're lucky I trust your discretion or I'd be burying you in Clint's grave," Natasha growled. Inside the car, Wanda's smile broadened for a moment.

Happy pulled his hand away from the door. Instead of slamming it shut, she paused and after a time, sighed. Her voice lowered. "Look, I lost them too. It's not like I get to see them again, and likely none of us ever will. Lila's alive. Clint wasn't sure he could ever face her again, so he's kept away from her. Stayed here. Drowned his sorrows. I've been trying to get him back to her for a year now and thanks to your pet spider, I think I finally did it."

"Well the next time you fake kill a guy with my gun, do me a favor and let me know."

Natasha flipped him her middle finger, grabbed the door handle, and slammed it shut.

From his spot in the shadows, Peter watched as Happy returned the way he came and Natasha rocketed out of the underground parking center. His mind filled in mystery.

* * *

... this might be the end of this series...but I'm not sure... I guess we'll have to wait and see. Perhapds Lila has a little Valkyrie she's going to look u to. And perhaps an Uncle Loki . . .

Wouldn't that be something. . . .


End file.
